Excrucior
by Iphigenia1
Summary: Voldemort has returned, and so has Sylvia, Severus Snape's once-lost friend and associate, and part of a force that may be all that stands between Voldemort and utter destruction. The sequel to
1. Prologue

**Excrucior**

~Iphigenia~

_Odi et Amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior. _[I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask me why I do this. I do not know, but I feel it happening, and I am in torment.] –Catullus

Chapter One: Prologue 

            The next few years passed slowly for Severus Snape, as he tried his best to mask his hurt in a veil of bitterness and cold haughtiness, and pushed away the hope that she was returning. He turned away from the rejection that dogged him, both at his back whenever he looked behind him, and also in his dreams, where she was there, running towards him with open arms, which brought back the pain of her departure even more strongly. 

Harry Potter had come two years after she was gone, and he couldn't help think of her. She had said that she was related to him, hadn't she? And she had been with Lupin, who had been friends with James…but he didn't want to think about it. He wouldn't think about it. He felt hatred flare up out of his apathy for this boy who had done him no wrong, save remind him of his Sylvia. 

Various memories from the years of her absence floated to the surface of the Pensieve she had left him with. To think, he had only known her for a year, and had spent all these many years remembering that one perfect season. But it was what he recalled from the years after she had gone that he thought of most often. How he had seen her with him and a beautiful child, standing happily, in the Mirror of Erised…how he had barely been able to restrain himself around Remus Lupin when he returned sans Sylvia…when Lupin had told him that Sylvia had asked him to go as well, that she wanted to be alone…the very few letters he had received from this woman, the one woman who was meant for him. 

The memories were not enough. How could he live without her? It was not a real life. He was not real without her beside him. And when he saw the Dark Mark grow stronger upon his arm, he wondered if she felt the Dark Lord's presence in her heart, and on the scar that she bore on her chest, a memento from Slytherin bequeathed to her that she might always find their Heir. 

And then there was the final task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and Harry Potter emerged as the reigning hero, as usual. But this time something different had happened. Voldemort had returned. He had regained his old physical shape again. It was time. After he had spoken with Dumbledore, who had a certain glint in his eyes (Snape had always thought that the headmaster was not completely over his youthful infatuation with Sylvia), he sat down to write her a letter.

What to say? In the end, he found that only the simplest thing would suffice. Two words scrawled on a scrap of parchment. _He's back_. He sent the owl off, and a week later, received a similar reply. _I know. _

He was not expecting to see her so soon. As he finished packing up his belongings to go home for the summer, he felt a presence behind him. Turning around slowly, as if not wanting to see whomever it was, he saw her standing there nervously, her hands pressed into the fabric of her white linen dress, her olive skin darker than it had been, her honeyed hair lighter. It was Sylvia.

"Severus," she murmured, and there was a slight pause before they rushed at one another with a combination of need and desire. 

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Just a little prologue to get the story started back up. See, I started writing a sequel immediately. I couldn't help myself. Also, I seem to find it hard to get past the Catullus poem, so I'm using it again. I want to thank Eriu for a thoughtful review to Odi et Amo, too—I hope that you will also read this story and reevaluate your opinion of Sylvia (who was being, by the way, selfish).


	2. BestLaid Plans

**A/N:** Okay, this is the boring "explanation" chapter. I promise the next chapter will be more interesting; I do promise! And it will be coming soon, because I am really excited about writing it.

**Chapter Two**

_"So bowed am I before thy mystery;  
So bowed and broken on Love's terrible wheel,  
That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,  
Yet care I not what ruin time may bring  
If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel." _

–Oscar Wilde, "The New Helen"

After they had finished reacquainting themselves, Sylvia made him sit down on his chair, ignoring the mess he had made of all the clothes and other things he had been trying to pack. 

"We should talk, Severus," she said to him, placing his hand in her own and rubbing it affectionately.

"I have to admit, Sylvia, that I like what we did just now better than talking," he said, smiling slightly. He had been thinking about it for days, how he would react now that he knew she was returning. He had had all these years to think of a proper response for the hurt that she had placed upon him unceremoniously. He had thought he would be cold, bitter, sarcastic—and yet, what he had just done had little to do with any of those things. He supposed he was right when he had said what he said to Dumbledore when she left. He hated her and he loved her, but he loved her much more than the hate could reach. 

"Sevy," she said, using his old nickname, "I have spent all these years back in my birthplace…at that old bookshop in Greece that you told me about, remember? That's where our house was."

"Socrates lived in the bookshop?" he said, never ceasing to be amazed by her immortality, by the fact that she had been alive these many years, by her inhuman beauty and grace.

"Well, not _in _the bookshop, Sevy. It wasn't there." She was laughing at him. Gods, he had forgotten how much he loved the way her eyes crinkled up when she laughed. 

"As much as I guessed," he said, laughing back. How long had it been since he had laughed?

"This isn't the tangent I meant to get on," she replied, still smiling a little. "I want to talk about—about things, you know?"

"Oh yes, things," he said sarcastically, realizing that she was going to apologize for the years apart. He wasn't sure an apology was sufficient, and he wasn't sure that he wanted to even hear it. 

"I've had a lot of time to think, Sevy, and I realized that I was selfish. I was supremely selfish. But all these memories rushed up on me, memories of all these centuries, and I thought to myself, these memories will be gone when I am. And what is it like? I have seen many a man die, and I have watched as the light leaves his eyes. Do you know what I mean?"

"You have no idea," he murmured, thinking of the times when he had caused the light to leave an innocent man's life. 

"But where does that light go? To the Forms, the pure existence that Plato was so fond of?"

"Or to nothingness, as Nietzsche would say," he replied lightly, always having preferred the nihilist to other philosophers. 

Sylvia hadn't heard him. "Ruth used to tell me about when I was little, and Plato took me on. My mother died in childbirth, and my father—he was killed for the truth that he believed. After he was gone, she says that Plato had me come live with him. They couldn't explain to him why I never aged significantly during his lifetime—I was still an infant when he died as an old man. But she says that he used to say, 'The mysteries of the gods are not for us to know,' and that was the end of it. I like to think that he found the Forms he sought in the end."

            She had gotten passionate. He loved it when she was passionate about philosophy (or philosophers). "Sylvia," he said hopefully.

            "Hmm?" she asked, wondering what he might want.

            "You've been gone for so long. Don't you think we should make up for lost time? Again?" he asked, gesturing to the bed.

            "Oh, absolutely," she replied, smiling brilliantly at him.

***

            Afterwards, they lay together comfortably in the bed, Snape playing with Sylvia's hair, Sylvia playing with his. And the subject that Snape had wanted to avoid for as long as possible came up just when he did not want it to.

"What will you do about his return?" Sylvia asked, searching for any expression in his eyes, something that could tell her how he felt. She had been away from him for so long that she did not remember how to read him.

            "I have to go back to him, and plead for mercy," Severus replied, looking away from her on purpose.

            "Sevy, you can't!" she said, horrified. "He would never take you back—he will kill you. What does Albus say?"

            "We've talked about this at length over the years, you know," he said sarcastically; she did not, in fact, know, seeing as how she had not been here those many years. "What I would do if he returned. And it is decided. Albus needs someone on the inside, though we cannot know how much he knows about my activities before his downfall."

            "But Severus, please," she breathed, but he interrupted her.

            "Sylvia, you are part of this plan. I know that you and the Headmaster have probably discussed your role in this. You're going to go back to him, aren't you? You must ask him to spare my life. Not torture—I expect as much for being unfaithful—but you must tell him that I have to live. He knows that I'm your One, doesn't he?"

            "He does; in fact, it was he who told me you were," she replied, looking very worried. "And he wants you dead so that I will not be. He wants me to live with him forever." She shuddered at the thought; as much as she was afraid of dying, she was much more afraid of living forever with that sort of evil.

            "Then you must tell him that you want to live with him also. Do you understand, Sylvia? Tell him that I must live until you have completed preparations for a special ritual that you have to do to kill me. He won't know better, if you say that it is an affair that only the Three know of; simply tell him that if I die before the ritual, you will die. That should be enough to motivate him to let me live." He scrutinized her appearance. Her ability to carry off this lie was all that would save him, but what other options did he have?

            "I will do my best," she said, her head bowed, as if with the enormity of the situation. "I feel so old, Severus…I ache. I want the evil out of my bones."

            "I know, Sylvia," he replied, "I want it out of my bones too."

***

The next day she and Snape went to talk to Albus about Voldemort. Not having seen her yet, the Headmaster was clearly overjoyed.

"Ah, Sylvia! You have returned! We have waited so long for you," he said, settling down comfortably behind his desk.

"I know, Albus, though I believe that recent circumstances have more than warranted my return here," she replied in her most serious tone.

"Where are Rosamund and Sophie?" he asked. "I have been doing extensive research on the journals of Rowena Ravenclaw, and I have come across an interesting section about the Three. Apparently, you have to all be together in order for a certain ritual—"

"It's not gone so far as all that, has it, Albus?" she interrupted him hastily. "How did you…?"

"We'll discuss it later," Dumbledore said, glancing at Snape, who was feeling distinctly left out. "But can you at least tell me where they are?"

"Sophie is in Rome, and has been there for quite some time. The last I heard, Rosamund was back in America, in Boston, but she hasn't contacted me in several months. I'm worried about her."

"As am I," Dumbledore added. "I don't know how much you and Severus have spoken about—"

At this point, Snape felt it was safe to interrupt him, and finally join the conversation. "I have told her about what we must do."

"Sylvia," Dumbledore began, "A great deal is resting on your quite capable shoulders. Our own Professor Snape's life, in fact. We need you to convince Voldemort that he must live until you have gathered the Three for a ritual not dissimilar to the one that Ravenclaw mentioned."

"But Albus," she interjected, "Such a ritual, even if it did exist, would be supremely different from the one that we had to use then."

"Yes, I realize that," he replied, "But I'm not sure that Voldemort does. His desire for you will blind his rationality. And that is just how we want him. Can you return to him?"

"How could I not?" she asked, fingering her scar.

"Sylvia, you are a remarkable creature, do you know that?" Dumbledore asked, a certain light in his eyes that Snape had seen before.

"Oh, Albus," she demurred. "I am only doing what I was created to do. I can do no more, no less."

"But the Headmaster is right," Snape said quietly, reaching for her hand, "You are quite remarkable."

"Albus," she said, obviously trying to change the subject, "What will be done about Harry Potter? He attends school here now, doesn't he?"

"He is safe with his relatives for the summer," Dumbledore replied. "But yes, he does attend Hogwarts. He will be a fifth-year."

"I should like to speak with him, you know, just in case he will have to help us," she said, and Dumbledore appeared to know what she was talking about, though Snape (as usual) had no idea. 

"I think you should wait until Harry returns to school here to speak with him," Dumbledore advised. "His relatives are most decidedly Muggles."

"Are we done talking about Potter?" Snape asked sharply; he really could not stand the boy who played hero at every opportunity.

"Yes, I think we're done here," Dumbledore said. "But be on your guard, both of you. We don't know when Voldemort will summon you next. I trust both of you will be as cautious as you can in this situation. You are helping us to rid the world of a great evil."

As they walked out, Sylvia murmured only loud enough for Snape to hear, "When does the world not contain a great evil, or one just beginning to germinate? It is in the nature of things." As she said it, she looked different—larger, perhaps, and awe-inspiring.

"Nothing that Voldemort does is in the nature of things, Sylvia," Snape replied a little harshly, wondering what she was thinking. But he had seen a flash of something powerful in her eyes, and it frightened him. He wondered if anyone else had ever seen it, and if they had, had they worshiped her? For it was at times like these that she seemed to him a goddess, an object of worship. He wanted nothing else than to worship her always.

But the light faded and she then looked as tired as she had earlier. "I know, Severus. I'm sorry. I have grown jaded, and I'm exhausted. I just want to sleep sometimes."

"You can always sleep with me," he offered with a smile, and grasped her hand, leading her towards his room.

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Okay, that's the end of this first installment. Next chapter, Sylvia and Snape get to go visit Voldie. Woo….that'll be fun…hmm. Anyway, thanks to all my wonderful reviewers: darling **Normandie M **(we shall see Quirrell when the school year starts up again—and if you like Quirrell, read her story "Redemption"), **Brina, swiftfootede **(aka Elokin), and of course, my own little baby bear **Severa**. If you find the idea of Severa and I running around on various antics mildly amusing, I highly suggest her fic "Rubida Luna".


	3. It Was Not Love

A/N: Here's the Severus and Sylvia return to Voldemort chapter. Sorry that it's taken so long to post. Next week is my spring break, so I may very well have more time to get a new chapter up. So read on, and enjoy! Chapter Three 

_Death devours all lovely things;  
Lesbia with her sparrow  
Shares the darkness,--presently  
Every bed is narrow._

_Unremembered as old rain  
Dries the sheer libation,  
And the little petulant hand  
Is an annotation._

_After all, my erstwhile dear,  
My no longer cherished,  
Need we say it was not love,  
Now that love is perished?_

-Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Passer Mortuus Est" 

It was but the next night that Sylvia felt the searing pain in her breast—it was a half-remembered old pain, the white-hot intensity of it having been forgotten over the years, and now she grasped her chest as if she might suffocate.

She knew instantly what she must do, and sought out Severus. As it was, she met him in the corridors of Hogwarts (which precinct they would vacate the next day for the summer holiday, and retire to a house in Hogsmeade), obviously coming to fetch her. 

"Are you ready?" he asked. "He is summoning the Death Eaters."

"He summons me also," she replied, caressing his face in her concern. "We should go separately. You go first and I will follow in a half hour or so. I need some time. A girl must look pretty for a man who is incapable of love, yet claims to love her. He may have loved me once, you know. But I don't think so, Sevy. I really don't think so."

He chose not to respond to her last statement. "I will see you soon," he said, walking away briskly, and trying to mask the fear in his eyes. He did not know what he would do when he saw this woman, this beautiful and good woman, who was his, standing next to the loathsome caricature of a man, pretending as if she cared for him.

***

The meeting was in the accustomed spot; the grounds of the old Riddle home. The Muggles there were incompetent, and unaware of any strange happenings; they were too frightened to approach the house or its grounds.

Severus tried to push his way into the circle of hooded figures, but felt it close up at his presence. He was on the outside now, and it was clearly communicated that he was not allowed to be a part of the circle, as he had missed the first meeting of Voldemort's return. At the head and somewhat above the circle, standing on a slight hill, was Voldemort, unmasked, his chalk-white skin shining horribly by the light of the pale moon, his red eyes flashing with malice.

"I see one has returned that I did not expect," he said in his cold voice, and Snape prostrated himself before the man (if man he was). He had learned this trick a long time ago. He just wished Sylvia would get here quickly.

"My Lord," he murmured, staring at the hem of Voldemort's long black robe. 

"My unfaithful servant," Voldemort replied without emotion. "Did you really think you could return to me? You deserve to die for your infidelity. And die you will. But not yet. Take your accustomed place. We have business to finish before I let the others take care of you."

Snape slowly rose to his feet, and stood next to Crabbe on one side, and Malfoy on the other side. He was trembling, but he did not want them to see. He was glad for the hood that covered his face; so that his expression did not betray him.

"Now, on the most unfortunate matter of the Potter boy," Voldemort said; it was obvious that the meeting had already officially begun in the manner that was set out. "I find it unacceptable that you are unable to kill him. Obviously at the moment he is untouchable, with his relatives. So I suggest we postpone his eventual destruction until the school year resumes, so that he might be killed right under the nose of that Muggle-loving fool. 

"The main purpose of this meeting is to organize an event fit for my return. I want hapless wizards and filthy Muggles alike to know that I have come back. I have several ideas, the foremost being—"

"Tom." It was one word, in a strong contralto voice, and yet, the whole circle of Death Eaters turned their eyes from the Dark Lord to the opposite side of the circle, where the woman was standing robed in bright red, her hair shining almost violently against the color.

"No one interrupts when I am speaking," Voldemort said, his voice touched with anger, but he had not seen her yet—the bulk of Crabbe and Goyle blocked her from view. 

"I speak as I will," she said, and the circle parted automatically to let her through. Snape watched carefully as Voldemort caught sight of her. The man's expression changed perceptibly. His gaze grew more intent, even lustful, upon the woman whose dress matched his watchful eyes. She ascended the hill and stood next to him almost casually.

"Do you really think you can simply stand next to me, and it is what it was?" he asked, his face almost contorted into a sneer.

"Do you really think you do not want me to stand here?" she asked, her eyes lost in his.

"The child—" Voldemort began.

"The boy," she corrected. "It was no girl."

"Of course, mother," he said, accepting the correction, and Snape shuddered at the title he gave her. "The girl is reserved for another." He fixed his horrible eyes on Snape, and he fell to the ground with the intensity of the hatred concentrated upon him.

"Regardless, Tom," she said, putting her hand to his cheek in what looked like a gesture of intimacy; Snape realized more correctly that she was averting Voldemort's eyes from him, trying to save him from the pain. There was an almost silent murmur throughout the Death Eaters at her touch; no one touched the Dark Lord. "The boy is gone, but I am here."

"You are here. And another can be made. I must have an heir," he said, his voice lowered, as if carrying on a private conversation in spite of the Death Eaters surrounding them 

"Are you certain? Heirs bring countless troubles," she replied casually, as if this were a dinner table conversation.

"Enough of speech," he answered, then turned to face the others. "Another gathering a week hence. You will be summoned. You are dismissed, except for you," he said, curling his finger towards Snape as the rest disapparated.

As soon as they were gone, Voldemort kissed Sylvia hungrily, as Snape looked away in horror. He thought he might retch—his head spinning, the red of Sylvia's dress swirling in his eyes, and the world moving beneath him. He had thought that he could do this, but now he was not so sure. 

"Tom, what do you want with him?" she asked, breaking away from him, and gesturing to Snape.

"He must die, mother, mustn't he? He has been unfaithful to me," Voldemort replied, smirking slightly.

"I have been unfaithful to you as well, but you do not kill me," Sylvia answered, twining her hand in his.

"I am unable to kill you," he murmured.

"Regardless," she said. "Release him for now. We will deal with him later." She looked down casually at Severus, and her eyes communicated for a brief moment her fear for him.

"Mother, really! He must die _now_." Voldemort's tone was almost petulant. Snape had never thought he would hear Voldemort sound petulant.

"Not right now," she replied, a hint of seduction, of longing in her voice. "Aren't there better things to be doing? How long has it been?"

"Too long," Voldemort said, and ran his hands down the length of her body. Snape looked away again. He simply couldn't stomach something so foul, so horrible. It was only when he felt that terrible red stare upon his back, that he met the eyes glittering with malice. "You will be taken care of soon enough, and forgotten," he added. "Now, go."

And as Snape prepared to disapparate, he watched as Voldemort led Sylvia to the old house, his hands still roving over her body.

***

Sylvia did not return for several days. Snape met with Dumbledore to tell him the details of the meeting, and to express his concern about Sylvia.

"Dr. Oliver will be fine," Dumbledore replied, "I am sure that she is just trying to glean as much information as she can from Voldemort." Despite his optimistic tone, his eyes betrayed his worry.

Trying to quell his fears, Snape moved his things into his old family manor on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. For a while, it was distracting as he unpacked boxes and bags, and redecorated one of the old bedrooms for Sylvia (though he hoped she wouldn't really want to sleep there). However, he fell apart when he walked past the nursery, still complete with bassinet and rocking chair. 

He sat down in the rocking chair, desperately wanting her to be back, hating the fact that she made him so vulnerable, so emotional, when he heard her voice echo from the entryway.

"Sevy? Are you here?"

He jumped up and ran down the stairs, seeing her standing disheveled in her same red dress, looking about her with surprise.

"What a lovely old house, Severus. I had no idea." However, she didn't have much time to look around, as he grabbed her almost violently in an embrace.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine, I promise. But I would love a cup of tea." He gladly obliged her, and soon they were seated in the spacious kitchen with cups of tea.

"Can you tell me what happened?" he asked anxiously.

"What, about the birds and the bees?" she replied. "Sevy, I thought your mother would have taught you better." She said it almost casually, though she looked troubled.

"So, you…with Voldemort…" He didn't like to think of it.

"I don't see why I wouldn't. Don't worry, Sevy. I am used to him…to all his violent desires…to all his…his…Anyway. After you left, this is how we occupied our time for quite a while. After this, we talked for quite some time. I convinced him that it would take time for me to destroy you, and he believes me. You're safe for the moment. But he's planning something big, something monstrous. He doesn't know the exact details yet, but I think he will wait until Hogwarts is back in session. He wants Albus to be afraid of him, though I think we know that that will never happen. Finally, I persuaded him to let me go, telling him that I must keep up appearances with you, so that you wouldn't expect anything. And here I am."

"As long as you're safe, and you're alive," Snape replied. "Then I am safe, and I am alive."

"Why, that was downright romantic," Sylvia said, a smile lighting her cheeks.

"Who would've thought?" he answered, then he reached for her hand. "I don't know if I can do this, Sylvia. It's too much for me, to see you with him, and to have to—I just can't."

"Oh, Sevy, you must," she responded. "Because it has now just begun. And what else can we do but fight him?" 

"What else indeed?" he asked, wondering.

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That's all, folks! I think next we're going to move quickly through the summer and return to Hogwarts. If you love me lots and lots and lots, read and review, and I will be your slave forever!


	4. Something to Flinch At

**A/N:** Okay, having taken a much longer time than promised, here is the next chapter in the installment. Oh, and so you know, the ghost of Wilton Quirrell will feature in the next chapter (or perhaps two from now, depending on how the next one pans out), this I promise you! Now read on—mysteries are set up, Voldemort returns in strength, and everyone has a merry old time.

Chapter Four 

_Cracked eggs, dead birds   
Scream as they fight for life  
I can feel death, can see its beady eyes   
All these things into position  
All these things we'll one day swallow whole   
And fade out again and fade out again_

-Radiohead, "Street Spirit"

The rest of the summer was whiled away in Snape's large estate, with lazy afternoons spent studying Greek and obscure philosophers (Severus began to ask himself if there was any way to go back in time and strangle Aristotle), and mornings filled with the wonderful pleasure of waking up by someone's side. Of course, the nights were not so pleasurable—at least once a week, they would be summoned to Voldemort.

Sylvia would go along with Snape for the meetings, in which Voldemort would stare at him with the coldest of hatred, and then he would have to wrench himself away from her, knowing she would not return for a day or so.

Sometimes she returned wearing the red dress, sometimes other old items of hers, which must have been tucked away in whatever place she and Voldemort met. Snape recalled a particularly funny day when she had come back in a bright yellow short dress, her hair mussed, looking as if she had stepped out of a much earlier decade.

He knew that her promise to Voldemort was growing strained, and that the man was getting angrier with him day by day. She tried to tell him that she needed more time, and that she needed all the members of the Three with her to do it, but Voldemort was becoming suspicious, and life was growing more and more dangerous. Soon it was time to return to school, to prepare for the coming year. 

***

When Snape and Sylvia returned to Hogwarts a few days before term began, it was to a subdued atmosphere. Everything seemed dimmer, gloomier, and so did everyone's countenances.

          Dumbledore, in his opening speech, warned the students of the return of Voldemort, and Sylvia watched from her seat on the dais (she was at Hogwarts on the pretense of archaeology again) as all the students flinched at the sound of the name. All except for a select few, most of whom were sitting at the Gryffindor table.

          "Severus, is that Harry Potter?" she asked, pointing as inconspicuously as possible at the boy who lived.

          "That's him, all right," he muttered. "Brave Potter and his two best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger." He was sarcastic.

          "They didn't flinch at Tom's other name," she remarked, staring at the unruly black hair and the round glasses fixedly.

          "No, they did not." He tried his best not to make much of it. He didn't like to think Potter as courageous as he knew he really was.

          "All the better for them, then. There's going to be more to flinch at, when he returns in full," she whispered to him, and there was a flash of some old nameless power in her eyes.

***

After the banquet was over, the prefects led the first years back to the dorms, and Sylvia excused herself from Snape.

          "There's some business I need to attend to, love," she said. "Oh, and if Rosamund gets in, will you let me know?" She and Sophia St. Paul, the youngest member of the Three, were still awaiting the arrival of their middle member, Rosamund Smith, whom they had not heard from in a few months.

          "Of course, that's no problem," he said, "As Head of Slytherin House, I need to go down to our common room anyway and introduce myself to the new students, so we'll just meet up again later."

          "Oh!" she said brightly. "Then you can escort me down there! That's just where I was going."

          "Sylvia, the location of our commons is supposed to be a secret. How on earth do you know where it is?"

          She gave him an exasperated look. "Severus, I bore the heir of Slytherin. Do you not think a man takes his wife to the common room every once in a while?"

          Suddenly he felt foolish. "Ah, right," he said stupidly. "Well, then. On we go."

          As they reached the low-ceilinged common room, Snape stepped to the front to discuss policies with the first-years, but out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Sylvia, who had pursued Draco Malfoy, and was apparently discussing something of great importance with him.

          "…points can be taken away from the House for…" Snape droned on, only to be cut off by the discussion between Sylvia and Malfoy, which had reached its peak.

          "IT'S NOT TRUE! I DON'T BELIEVE YOU!" Malfoy shouted, his face crimson.

          "Go then, Draco! But know that it is all true, every last word of it!" Sylvia snapped back, flying out of the room in a rage, the door slamming behind her. Everyone watched as Malfoy stalked back to his dormitory, and then there was a moment of silence.

          "For disorderly conduct…" Snape began again.

***

Later on, he made his way up to Sylvia's room, bright and cheerful, and dominated by the large 16th century portrait of her. But her room was empty. She returned a few minutes after he had arrived, still dressed in her pale pink robes.

          "Oh hey, Sevy! Sorry, I was out and about. How long have you been waiting?"

          "Not very. Sylvia, what was that argument between you and Mr. Malfoy about?"

          She grew tight-lipped. "I really can't tell you right now, Severus. Suffice it to say that I am not pleased with him at the moment."

          "Sylvia, do you remember the first year you were here? How many secrets you kept, and how maddening it was? I thought there were to be no more secrets between us!" After all, didn't she trust him?

          She sat down on the bed next to him, and placed one of his hands in her own. "I'm so sorry, Sevy. I'd like to tell you, I really would. But Albus and I have decided that I can't. It's just too dangerous to let you know about everything, isn't it? Tom is gaining power every day, and it's taking all my convincing to keep him from killing you. If he were to give you the veritaserum potion, you would be vulnerable. Some things must be kept secret."

          "You're right, of course," he agreed. "I just hate that it has to be like that. He's ruined everything, hasn't he?"

          "Surely it couldn't be everything," she murmured, leaning over to kiss him. Suddenly, he forgot what he had been talking about.

***

It was the middle of the night a week or so later, with Severus Snape sleeping peacefully beside her, that Sylvia was summoned once again, her mark flaring up in a rush of pain. She was surprised, for Tom had never summoned her alone—usually she came along to the Death Eaters' meetings, and then stayed afterwards.

          She looked down at her One, so beautiful and innocent as he slept, and decided that she shouldn't wake him. She couldn't be gone for too long, after all, and she hated the look he got in his eyes when she told him that she had been summoned.

Reluctantly, she rearranged herself, and found the man who had once been Tom Riddle waiting for her in the bedroom of the Riddle House, their usual meeting place. His eyes were almost merry—if such evil eyes could ever be called merry, as if the malice flickering in them was a merry malice—and he seemed excited.

          "Mother," he said, running a long, cold finger up the side of her arm. She shuddered a little bit. She still wasn't used to the coldness of his touch. He hadn't been cold like this before, all those years ago. His touch had been warm then, even if his purposes had not.

          "Yes, Tom?" she asked tiredly. "What warrants getting me up in the middle of the night?"

          "But I do so love this little thing that you wear to bed," he remarked, fingering her short polka-dotted chemise, semi-sheer and clinging to her in places.

          "Well, thank God for little miracles," she said wryly. "At least you love something."

          "Mother," he said again, this time a bit impatiently, "I summoned you here to warn you. I don't know why you still waste your time with that old fool Dumbledore—"

          "I've told you, Tom, only until we kill him and the other, and I can be with you—"

          "But," he said, interrupting her interruption, "That is of no consequence. There will be an attack on the students within the next few days, on their first Hogsmeade visit. I want to show that Muggle loving fool that I'm not to be trifled with."

          "Tom," she breathed, wondering how she could get the news to Albus on time.

          "I don't completely trust you yet, Andromache," he said, using the name that her mother had given her more than two thousand years ago, and watching her face carefully. "I'm not going to give you the chance to go back there and tell him about it. You'll stay with me until the attack and after that," his eyes began to twinkle with the malicious merriment again as he said it, "After that, you can return and tell me how that old fool feels about me then."

          "But Tom—" she said, wracking her brain for an excuse to get away, but he shushed her with a bitterly cold finger placed against her lips.

          "Come now, Mother, and hush," he said in the voice he thought was seductive (horrible in its tone, she thought). "I'm sure we can find something to occupy our time."

***

"She's been gone for three days now," Snape was telling Dumbledore, his voice worried. "Where could she have gone?"

          "To Voldemort, undoubtedly," the headmaster replied. 

          "But why? He has never summoned her alone before, and even if he had, don't you think she would have let me know that she was going?" Snape asked, doing his best not to become over-emotional.

          "Something is most definitely wrong," Dumbledore answered, "But I don't know what it is. Obviously Voldemort is planning something, something that he didn't want her back here to tell us about. I wish I knew what." He looked as if he had been spending quite a bit of time thinking on the issue.

          "So do I," Snape said, standing up and about to leave the headmaster's office. "Well, I suppose I really ought to get into town. They've already taken the students into Hogsmeade and I promised McGonagall and Sprout that I would meet them in the tavern for a drink."

          Dumbledore stood up almost wildly, realization dawning on him. "That's it, Severus! He knows he can't get into the school, so he's going to get at them this way! He couldn't let her come back here and tell us that he was going to attack them! We must go!" 

          Awed by the power that the old headmaster was suddenly exhibiting, Snape immediately agreed. 

***

The scene that met their eyes in the village of Hogsmeade was a terrifying one. Several buildings had been destroyed, smoke rising from them into the blue autumn sky, clogging the air. Much of their merchandise had been thrown haphazardly into the streets and was strewn about at random, making it hard to get around. People were walking about in a daze, both students and adults, still in shock from the horror.

          Snape and Dumbledore found McGonagall and the other teachers still in the tavern, nursing their wounds and others' in a makeshift infirmary.

          "Albus!" McGonagall cried, her right shoulder bleeding profusely, as she ran forward to embrace him.

          "Minerva, what's happened?" Dumbledore asked. 

          "Hogsmeade was attacked. The Death Eaters were out in force. We managed to beat them back eventually, but I think that they let us live on purpose. Something or someone made them leave. Dozens are wounded, three students are dead, and so are several townspeople."

          "So Voldemort has shown himself publicly," he said, fire burning in his eyes. "He cannot go unpunished. We must summon Rosamund immediately—it has gone far enough."

          "Albus, that's not all," McGonagall interjected, grasping for his arm. 

          "There's more?" Snape asked. 

          "Yes," she said. "Harry Potter is missing."

@@@

Yikes! A cliffhanger! Where could Harry be? Did Voldemort seize him? Did he become a dancing monkey and join the circus? Who knows? Send in reviews, and add your wild theories.


	5. A History Lesson

**A/N:** Okay, so yeah. This chapter came waaaay late. I know. But I am done with school now and I PROMISE they will come more frequently now. Anyway, this is the obligatory "Sylvia explains everything to the Boy Wonder" chapter, for those of you just joining us who need to know about her. Some things are hinted at, too. More exciting secrets will follow in the next chapter. Just so you know, I'm now having a "find the worst piece of vintage clothing Sylvia could wear" contest. If you have any submissions, let me know. Oh, and sorry for the damn long epigram. I love T.S. Eliot and I couldn't cut any of it.

Chapter Four 

_"After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now  
History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors  
And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,  
Guides us by vanities. Think now  
She gives when our attention is distracted  
And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions  
That the giving famishes the craving. Gives too late  
What's not believed in, or if still believed,  
In memory only, reconsidered passion. Gives too soon  
Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with  
Till the refusal propagates a fear. Think  
Neither fear nor courage saves us. Unnatural vices  
Are fathered by our heroism. Virtues  
Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes.  
These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree."_

_~T.S. Eliot, Gerontion_

          "Harry Potter is missing?" Dumbledore repeated. "Did the Death Eaters take him?"

"We don't know. We just haven't been able to find him, Ron, or Hermione since the attack. So, as I say, he is missing," McGonagall answered sharply, her nerves clearly on edge.

Snape knew this news shouldn't make him happy, but he couldn't help but feel a vague sense of joy at these words, then immediately rebuked himself. No matter how much he hated the boy, he had defeated Voldemort.

"Uh…professors?" came a rather sheepish voice from the entrance of the tavern. Everyone swiveled to see Harry, Ron, and Hermione standing dumbfounded. Hermione had spoken, and was slowly approaching Professor Dumbledore.

"What happened, sir?" she asked. "We were—we were up at the Shrieking Shack, just to, you know, look around…" She trailed off as a shaggy black dog appeared next to her.

"I completely understand, Miss Granger," Dumbledore replied, glancing over at the transfigured Sirius Black. "However, do not ask me what has transpired here. I myself have just arrived. I believe Professor McGonagall would be a suitable source of information."

"We were sitting here, enjoying a round of drinks—" McGonagall began, only to be cut off by cries of "Severus, Severus".

"Sylvia?" Snape yelled, turning his head somewhat frantically to find the origin of her cries.

She ran down the stairs from the top of the tavern, wearing a hideous lime green dress made of velvet. A collective cry of disgust went up.

"Oh, good god," Snape said, and hastily performed the _vestinovi_ spell. Unfortunately, the clothing he was picturing Sylvia in was her sheer polka-dotted chemise.

"Sevy!" she cried, trying to cover herself.

"Merlin's beard, Severus," Dumbledore said, performing the _vestinovi_ spell himself. Now Sylvia was clothed in a sparkling black gown with a long slit up the thigh, clearly from the 1920s. 

She shrugged. "Your fantasy of me is so much more pure than Professor Snape's, Albus," she said wryly. Now everyone in the tavern was staring at her. "I'm sorry. Do continue, Professor McGonagall." She silently sped down the stairs and stood next to Snape.

"The tavern was overtaken by a group of Death Eaters, who incapacitated us before we could draw our wands. They said that we professors had to—we had to live, so that we could see what an old fool Dumbledore really was." McGonagall glanced quickly at the headmaster before continuing. "They then left the tavern and made their way into the town. We couldn't see anything, but we could hear the screams. When they disapparated, we were freed, and went outside to see what had happened. What we saw…" she couldn't continue.

"What we saw," Sprout continued, putting a comforting hand on McGonagall's shoulder, "Well, it looked like a scene from 15 years ago. Chaos, destruction, death. We've lost three students, I know Minerva told you that, headmaster."

"Their names?" Dumbledore asked quietly.

"Colin Creevey, Blaise Zabini, and Cho—"

"Cho?" Harry repeated, shaking his head. "She couldn't have—"

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore said. "This tragedy has impacted us all—"

"Cho would've known better!" Harry screamed. "She would've—"

"Harry." It was all Sylvia said, but she put her arms around him to comfort him. At first, he relaxed into her maternal embrace, his grief making him forget that he barely knew this woman, but then he started away from her.

"My scar!" he said accusingly, placing his hand on his forehead and wincing. "Headmaster, she—she—she—"

"Albus," Sylvia said. "I am sure that there are things you need to attend to. Perhaps I should have a discussion with Harry, and come speak with you later?"

"An excellent idea, Dr. Oliver," Dumbledore responded, looking very tired. "Minerva, can you call the prefects to me? We're going to need to have them lead their housemates back to the castle…"

***

Sylvia and Harry sat in her room at Hogwarts, sharing a cup of tea together, Harry staring with bright eyes into his.

"Harry, I know how hard this must be for you. I remember when Remus and I heard about the death of two of our friends—"

"You know Lupin?" Harry asked, surprised. "Who are you? You seem familiar to me, you know. And did you…did you know my parents?"

"Who I am is a very hard question to answer, Harry. Give me a minute on that. Lupin and I have been close to each other for many years. I actually met him at your parents wedding. You see, I am your father's great-aunt—"

"Great aunt?" Harry repeated incredulously. "But you're not old enough to be his great aunt!"

"Harry, have you ever heard of the Three?" Sylvia asked.

"No," he mumbled, looking down into his tea.

"A long time ago, Mother Nature appointed three women to be her guardians. They were immortal, but they soon became lonely, so she offered them a chance to assuage their loneliness—for each of them, there was one man that was made to be their soul mate and companion. They would age a year for every human century until they met him. When they had conceived with him, a girl would be born, the next member of the Three. A few generations later, here I am."

"Wow," Harry breathed, his grief eclipsed by wonder at the woman's age. "How old are you, then? In human years?"

"Oh. That's a hard question to answer. I don't think I've ever thought about it. I was born in the 5th century before the common era, but I don't know my exact birth date. So I suppose that I am about 24 or 25 hundred years old."

"Whoa…er, sorry to be rude, but what's this got to do with my scar?" he asked, staring at her in a mixture of wonder and fear.

"Harry, when I was a young girl, about ten years ago (my years, I mean), I and my two companions came here to Hogwarts. It had just been founded. I was the eldest of the three, and in something of a quandary because I felt that the balance of Nature was being disturbed, and it was chiefly my job, as eldest, to restore it. I met a man named Salazar Slytherin, who…tricked me into bearing him a son. He knew that any child born of the Three, even if it was a male child, would live longer than a child of two wizard parents…"

"Seriously?" Harry said, looking as if this information overwhelmed him. "You _knew_ the Four Founders?"

Sylvia nodded. "Slytherin marked me, Harry, with a scar, that would lead me to find his and my heirs whenever they were in trouble or needed me. Several decades ago, by your count, I felt a great surge of power through that scar, and I knew that one had been born to take Slytherin's place."

"Voldemort," Harry said, looking a little pale around the edges.

"Yes, the man you call Voldemort. He sought me out and…he…" She wasn't quite sure how to say the next part to a teenage boy. "I was pregnant with his child, Harry."

"He has a child?" Harry yelped.

"No, the boy was stillborn," Sylvia replied smoothly, used to repeating this to those worried with the possibility of an heir to Voldemort. "But that's why your scar burned, Harry. I guess I still have a bit of Tom Riddle in my veins, left-over. I am sorry to have caused you any alarm."

"Do you know where he is?" Harry demanded. "Where Voldemort is? I know you do, I can tell by the look in your eyes!" He stood up, staring at her almost maniacally. "I want to kill him, Sylvia; I want to kill him for what he's done to my parents, and Cedric, and Ch—Ch--…" He broke off, crying.

"Harry, please. I can't give you that information. You are not ready to face him again, you—"

"I've faced him countless times, and I've won! You have to tell me, Sylvia, you have to—"

"Er, Harry," came a ghostly voice from beside the wall. The two living beings in the room looked over to see the ghost of Wilton Quirrell*, former Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, float into the room. Both Sylvia and Harry started.

"Wilton," Sylvia said just as Harry gulped, "Professor Quirrell."

"I hate to eavesdrop," Quirrell murmured, "but I couldn't help overhearing. Dr. Oliver, would you mind if I talked to Harry alone for a moment?"

"Please, Wilton, go ahead," she said, gesturing to the door. Quirrell swiftly floated out, followed by Harry. The two passed Snape, who was on his way in. She saw Harry flicker a bewildered look at the potions master, clearly wondering why he was visiting her quarters.

"Sylvia!" Snape said, rushing to hold her in his arms. "Oh gods! Are you all right?"

"Severus, I am fine," she said, dismissing his concern. "There are others we need to be worried about." She glanced towards the door. "How is everyone holding up?"

"Albus is speaking with the Ministry of Magic, and Minerva is addressing the school in the Great Hall. Added security is a necessity at this point," Severus pronounced very officially. He then stared down at a single bead on Sylvia's gown (the same one that Dumbledore had placed her in), apparently unwilling to meet her eyes. "What did he tell you, Sylvia?"

"Tom?" she asked. "He was so—so happy, Sevy," she shuddered at the thought of it. "He was so excited at this act of malice, and that no one could deny his return. He wanted to flaunt his power over Dumbledore, and he told me that he didn't completely trust me; he wouldn't let me return until the attack had been committed."

"It's just going to get worse, Sylvia, don't you know that?" Snape asked, grabbing her by the shoulders, wishing he could hold her, and that she would never be taken from him again.

"I know," she said tiredly. "How does evil survive generation after generation, when we do our best to stop it? Where does it thrive, where does it grow?"

"You are going to have to destroy him," Snape said, not answering her question. He wasn't sure how such destruction was done, but he knew his history, and he knew that the Three had done a similar thing with Slytherin all those years ago.

"I know, Sevy, don't you think I know? But where is Rosamund? If we don't have her, we can't do anything. Until now, I must do my best to prepare the—" She cut herself off just in time. "I can't tell you everything right now, you know? But you need to know that Albus and I have a plan. He can't be allowed to go on forever, can he?"

"No." Snape and Sylvia looked up to see Harry standing, determined, at the door, Wilton hovering behind him. "No, Sylvia, Prof. Snape, he can't be allowed to go on forever." His eyes were wet with tears, but he stood firm, committed to destruction.

@@@

*This is the manifestation of Quirrell from Normandie M's "Redemption" and (sort of) "Love of Finished Years". I recommend both, and Quirrell will frequent my story.

Aww…mushy, sad, crying Harry. Doesn't it just make you sick? Maybe the next chapter will feature more Draco. Oh yeah, and the last chapter was chapter 3, but I accidentally called it chapter 4. Don't be confused; _this_ is the real chapter 4. I'm just too lazy to change it.


	6. Astyages' Child

**A/N: **Well, after a bit of writer's block, here it is at last. I give special thanks to Mary Grace, Carson, and Ariel because I lifted their Greek names for characters in the story, albeit without their knowledge. Also, this chapter is dedicated to Severa, who has just graduated, and Threeoranges, who will be married this Saturday (and, so as not to be slighting, also to Normandie M, for finishing her Pompey essay at last). CONGRATULATIONS, MY GALS!

**Chapter Six**

_Being unable to move her husband, the woman then said: "Since I cannot convince you not to expose it, then, if a child has to be seen exposed, do this: I too have borne a child, but I bore it dead. Take this one and put it out, but the child of the daughter of Astyages let us raise as if it were our own; this way, you won't be caught disobeying our masters, and we will not have plotted badly. For the dead child will have royal burial, and the living will not lose his life." –Herodotus, Book 1.112.2-3_

It was a few weeks later that Snape was in the Slytherin common room, discussing advanced potions with several of the seventh years, that Sylvia entered breezily, wrapped cheerily in a scarf to ward off the chill in the air.

"Looking for me?" he asked, assuming that she would be.

"No, actually. Draco Malfoy," she said rather absentmindedly, walking towards the staircase.

"He just walked out a moment ago, I think," Snape replied.

"Oh. I must find him, then," she said, walking towards the door, still obviously deep in thought.

"Sylvia." He said it forcefully, and grabbed her arm. She turned to look at him, and it was as if she was seeing him for the first time.

"Severus," she responded. "I'm sorry."

"What on earth is wrong?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing, Sevy. I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to."

Something about her secretive tone, and the way she averted her eyes from him, made him snap. "I am so damn TIRED of this!" he said, and the Slytherins turned around in surprise, hearing their Head of House raise his voice. It wasn't like him, to be passionate. Usually his anger was cold and bitter, quiet and deadly.

"Tired of what?" she asked, also unused to him becoming angry in this fashion.

"No more!" he said, leading her out of the common room and down the hall to his quarters.

"No more what?" she asked dumbly.

"Secret keeping!" he snapped, as he sat her down on his bed. "I'm sick of it, Sylvia. I won't stand for it anymore. If Voldemort can get the truth out of me, then I'll soon be dead anyway, and then you'll never die, so why does it matter? Just tell me!"

"Are you sure you want to know?" she asked, crossing her legs.

"Absolutely."

"Very well," she replied, unwinding her scarf. "You may want to make yourself comfortable. This is going to take a while."

Taking her advice, he sat down beside her on the bed, wanting to know what she had to say.

"Let me start decades and decades ago. When I was with Tom, I took a barrenness potion once a month to ensure that I would not get pregnant. I did not like the idea of giving him a child, even though it was what he wanted. But eventually he figured it out." She shivered a little bit at the thought, and Snape reached his hand out to touch her shoulder in a way he hoped was comforting.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, no. I will," she said, taking a deep breath. "He gave me an antidote, and I may have conceived that very night. It turns out, as you may remember, that Narcissa Malfoy was pregnant at the same time. We became very close, sharing pregnancy stories and cravings and such."

"I do remember," he said. When he had been initiated into the Death Eaters, Sylvia had been several months pregnant, as had Narcissa.

"By some coincidence—or perhaps, something more than coincidence—we went into labor on the same night. There had been a meeting that night, and calling in any kind of medical help was out of the question. It would've revealed the Death Eaters. Lucius had some medical training, and Sophie was there. She's assisted me in several of my births. She really is an expert by now."

Snape considered asking Sylvia just how many children she had, but then thought better of it. He didn't really want to know.

"Narcissa delivered an hour or two before I did, and her child, a girl, died only half an hour later of complications. Both she and Lucius were stricken—I know you can't imagine them that way, but they were. My boy was born soon afterwards, and I realized what I had to do. It took some convincing on my part, but what Tom does not realize is that my magic is much more powerful than his can ever dream of being. They took my child and I theirs. I dressed her up and presented her to Tom. I am glad he did not examine the child fully, because he would've known." She managed a small smile. "He never deluded himself into thinking that he was my One." 

"Sylvia, then—" he began, baffled by what she was saying, but she continued.

"We buried the child, and I left that night, looking for anyone who would take me in. I remembered Remus Lupin, and I sought him out. I was very ill, and I spent many months recovering. After that, we left for America. Albus knows the truth of the matter, but no one else does save Sophie and the Malfoys. I have always said the child was stillborn."

"Draco…Malfoy…is…your…son?" Snape asked rather dumbly.

She stared down at her hands. "Yes," she replied simply.

"But…how? But…?" He was very confused.

"After it happened, the Malfoys and I promised that we would not speak to one another in public. For all everyone knew, we were strangers. It seemed better that way."

Severus remembered the first day he had met Sylvia, sitting outside Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, when Lucius had walked up.

_"You seem familiar,"_ he had said to Sylvia, whose eyes had avowed no knowledge of the man. _"Have we met?"_

_"We might have,"_ she had replied. How had they hidden it so well?

"But Sylvia," he said, shaking his thoughts back into the present, and remembering what he had wanted to ask. "Draco looks so much like his mother and father."

Sylvia nodded. "Yes, it seems so coincidental, doesn't it? Do you know about Tom's family, Sevy?"

"I must admit that I never inquired," he replied. The idea of exchanging small talk with Voldemort was amusing, to say the very least.

"His mother, a lovely witch named Calliope, had a brother and a sister, both younger than she. Her brother Koios married a Villefort—you know, the ancient wizarding family—and her sister Lampetia a Malfoy, a name which I'm sure is familiar to you. Koios and his wife, Flos, had a child named Narcissa, and the Malfoys, as you know, had a son, Lucius. The two were married. You see, they're cousins, and they are also cousins with—"

"Voldemort," Snape said, putting the pieces together.

"I guess when he began his ascent to power, they decided it would be more advantageous to keep things within the family then to join forces with some Muggle-loving fool. A pity. They're both so talented. So, you see, Draco is also related to them, more distantly."

"And you came to the commons tonight to tell him about his birth."

"Oh no, Sevy. He already knows about that. I told him at the beginning of term. Don't you remember?"

"Now I do," he replied, recalling the scene. Draco obviously hadn't taken it very well. "If not that, then what did you come for?"

"The _Natalis _spell that Salazar put on me, Sevy. It tells me when my heirs are in trouble. It's stronger with my direct children, of course. Draco is, in a way, my first direct child since Swithulf."

"Swithulf? Salazar's child?" Snape half-guessed. "I've never heard much of him."

"No, I imagine you wouldn't have. He's mostly kept out of the history books, save for those ridiculous stories of his wizard training. Regardless, when Draco is upset or hurt, I feel the pain in my scar, less strong then when Tom is summoning me, of course, as his power is much stronger than Draco's."

"And Mr. Malfoy is upset?" Snape asked.

"I think so, yes. One thing that I have learned is that those born under the _Natalis _spell have faint versions of the original scar-locator; in my case, the triangle. Wherever he is, he feels the pain there, too. But Sevy, I need to go find him. He's my own son."

"Yes," Snape said, although he wasn't sure he believed it yet. 

"I'm sorry," she said, as she left him.

"That's all right," he murmured as she left. "Everyone's more important than your One."

***

There was a secret room off the main section of the library. Sylvia had found it once in the 16th century when she had gone there to "study" (as she liked to think of it) with a seventh-year at the time. Isolated and normally utterly deserted, it was home to a magnificent set of illuminated texts from the Middle Ages. No one, not even Madam Pince, knew about it now. No one but her. Or so she had thought.

But that was where she found Draco, curled up in one of the windowsills, reading from an ancient parchment.

"Draco?" she asked, and he turned. The look in his eyes was extremely vulnerable.

"Oh…Dr. Oliver," he said, becoming sure of himself. The mask had slipped but for an instant. "I didn't know anyone else knew about this place. I found it my second year, when I was looking for the—"

            "Chamber of Secrets," she finished for him, and he seemed surprised. "I know a lot about you, Draco. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Dr. Oliver," he said formally, and with a trace of annoyance. "I had no idea that I had been followed up here, or I would have chosen another place. You're probably here on some plan of Potter and his friends, aren't you? I've seen you with them; you're positively chummy."

"Draco, I'm practically married to your Head of House. Why would I be here for Gryffindor purposes?" She was amused at the thought.

He was confused for a moment. Apparently he hadn't known about her relationship with Snape. "You weren't a Slytherin," he replied promptly.

"I never formally attended school here," she shot back. "However, when I first arrived, Rowena took me under her wing, and taught me formal magic….even gave me a wand…" Her tone was wistful, and caught up in memories.

"Rowena? So they're true? The stories my father used to tell me about the Three?" Draco asked.

"What stories were those?" 

"You know, that the Three were immortal, and they had to find their special One, and that they could control nature, and that they lost their immortality with a girl child and all that. I thought it was a myth."

"I can certainly see why," she replied. "It seems quite ridiculous, doesn't it? Scarcely to be believed. Perhaps it oughtn't to be. Well, I suppose if everything's all right, Draco, then I'll leave you." She turned to go.

"No, wait!" he said.

"Yes?"

"My father never…he never failed to mention that the other children of the Three…the boys…that they lived longer than most mortals. They had some special powers. I didn't think it was very important to the story. I couldn't figure out why he would add that." He looked down at the manuscript intently, trying to avoid her eyes.

"I think you know why, Draco," she said gently.

"It can't be true," he answered. "I don't believe it. You're not my mother more than McGonagall is."

"That's what's worrying you, isn't it?" she intuited.

"No, of course not," Draco said too quickly. "That's rubbish. You're full of it, Dr. Oliver."

"Draco…" It was all she said, and she pulled down her robe to show him her triangle-scar, red and irritated.

"No," he breathed, and slowly pulled down his robe and sweater to reveal a fainter, less pronounced triangle. "How did you know?"

"The _Natalis_ spell. Salazar put it on me. All my descendants have it as well, only weaker."

"If you're my mother, Dr. Oliver…does that mean that I can affect Nature?" Draco asked eagerly, obviously more excited at the idea of new, unknown powers than the implications of her motherhood.

"You could maybe manage a light rain," she said, smiling. "And please call me Sylvia, at least."

"Yeah, okay. So…my father…"

"Do you not know who your father is?" she replied, her smile vanishing. "I call him Tom. You might know him better as Lord Voldemort."

"No way! That's so cool! Dad—I mean, my Dad…I mean…--said that I should go with him to the next meeting. He says that the Dark Lord wants to meet me, that I would be useful. Inside source at Hogwarts, and all that. Just like you, right?"

"Draco, no!" she gasped, actually darting forward as if to make sure he was safe, to protect him. "You must not…you must _never_ meet him face to face."

"What? Why not? All the other Slytherins would be so impressed."

"The scar that we have—he has it too. He is also my descendant. And that means that he would know you as his, instantly. I'm just glad he hasn't been near enough to you to figure it out yet, and that your…I mean, Lucius and Narcissa haven't been weak enough to admit it to him. If he found out, it would mean that he knew we had lied. He can't kill me, Draco, but he can kill your parents. Lucius and Narcissa would be dead already if he knew."

Draco's face went ashen. "But Dad…"

"You must tell him that you cannot go! Explain it to him! If he doesn't listen to you, then let me tell him. If he knows about you, Draco…all my plans are forfeit." Her face was intensely troubled.

"Plans?" Draco asked, dropping the manuscript, an illumination of Swithulf Slytherin's training as a wizard, onto the floor in his excitement. "What plans?" He was intrigued at the idea of some sort of secret operation that he could perform under cover of night, and then brag about in the morning.

Instead of saying anything, Sylvia gazed intently at the manuscript for a moment or two, then finally murmured, "You'll know soon enough, Draco. Far too soon."

@@@

Trouble in paradise for Sevy and Sylvia? Could be, could be. In the next chapter, we will explore the fact that their relationship hasn't had much exploration recently, and find out why the hell I made Sylvia the mother of such an awful brat as Draco Malfoy. Well, maybe. Oh yeah, and when I corrected the chapters last time, I was wrong. I know. It's weird. Just know that this chapter is right. And since I plagiarized this whole plotline from Herodotus, I quoted him at the beginning. Now I am tired and hungry. I shall eat, and go to bed. Please perform the following three Rs: Read! Review! Rap in a ghetto fashion!


	7. The Fight

**A/N: **Well, after the once a summer (at least) power outage of ffnet, here is chapter seven, complete with deleted scene! Read and enjoy.

**Chapter Seven**

_"But I'm a yearling, a callow schoolboy; _

_in the eyes of love, a pallid virgin. _

_Just a newborn, barely breathing,_

_ in the eyes of love, I'm a yearling." _

-Jump Little Children, Yearling

"So here you are. Back at last, " Snape said a little bitterly to Sylvia, who was just coming in to the room.

            "What on earth do you mean?" She walked to the window, and stared out of it absentmindedly. Snow was falling thickly on the December ground, and the hills beyond the castle were veiled by the white. Christmas had come and gone, and the holidays were slipping away all too quickly. In a few more days, the new term would begin.

            "I mean that you're never around. There's always something more important than me," he replied, looking up briefly from his Kant, and pushing his reading glasses up his nose.

            "I'm sorry, darling," she said, sounding as if she didn't really mean it. "I guess I've just been busy." She walked past him to pick up a copy of Aristotle, and then lay down on the bed to begin it.

            "Yes. Well, everyone takes precedence over me," he murmured, lost in A Critique of Pure Reason.

            "What?" she asked, looking up from the Nicomachean Ethics.

            "Oh, nothing," he said breezily, enjoying the fact that there was about to be quite a row between them. There were a few minutes of silence, but he knew it was coming.

            "Severus Snape, I hate you!" she exploded. "I hate the way you treat me, I hate the way you treat others! I HATE YOU!"

            "Excuse me?" he said coolly, putting down his book as gently as if it were blown glass. He knew it would infuriate her.

            "How can I hate you, though? What's wrong with me, Severus? What's wrong?" she asked desperately, burying her face in her hands.

            "I don't know, but I'm not surprised. No one could love me for long, Sylvia. I don't really inspire love, I suppose." Even as he said it so offhand, he could feel his own words coming home to his soul and realized that they must be absolutely true.

            "That's not true, Sevy, it really isn't. You just make me so…so…so FRUSTRATED sometimes! The way you treat me—you can be so cruel sometimes. You're not like any of my other lovers." She said it so frankly that he was surprised. He thought she would be at least a little embarrassed to mention all the other men she had been with.

            "You forget that I'm new to this, Sylv—Andromache. I've never really had a lover before. Unlike you, darling, who has serviced more men than a common whore." She had hurt him, he thought as he said the bitter words, or had he hurt himself? Lost in pondering, he did not notice her hand come down heavy against his face, but felt the slap. He rubbed it ruefully.

            "Severus Snape!" she said, angry and swollen with power, and he looked up. As he did, his breath caught in his throat. She had stood up and seemed to almost be glowing, as something of great beauty and danger shone through her skin, pulsing with anger. Outside, he heard thunder rumble loudly, and saw that the gentle snowstorm had quickly turned to a raging blizzard. "HOW DARE YOU?" she asked, raising her right hand, and hail began to crash against the roof. In spite of himself, he backed away from her as much as he could. She looked dangerous. *

            "I'm sorry, Sylvia. That was uncalled-for. But it's true that you have much more experience than me."

            As he said the words that he hoped would assuage her anger, he noticed her right hand drop, and her whole body sag as if with exhaustion. The thunder and hail ceased, and the snow became a soft swirl once again.

            "No, I'm sorry, Severus. I haven't been paying you enough attention. I've been so occupied with Tom, and with Draco, and everything that's happening. I must admit I'm a little frightened, and I didn't want you to know." She collapsed on the bed, and suddenly everything that had been troubling him vanished at the sight of her so vulnerable.

            "Uh…Sylvia... Don't ever think you have to conceal that from me. I've been—I've been frightened too, you know," he said gruffly, not used to saying sentimental things. "Was that the right thing to say?"

            "I think so, yes," she said, smiling weakly at him.

            "Are you all right?" he asked, becoming a little concerned for her. 

            She nodded. "I haven't used my power in a long time. I didn't mean to, it was just that I got so angry—I wonder if everyone felt it." 

            He didn't know what she meant, but was quickly enlightened. Sophie came racing into the room.

            "Andi, what's wrong? I felt it immediately," she asked, grabbing Sylvia's hand.

            "Nothing's wrong, Art," she replied sheepishly. "I just got a little…angry…with Severus. We had an argument, but we've resolved it now."

            Have we? Severus wondered. As much as things had been patched up for the moment, that was all it was—a patch. He was afraid it might break open again soon. But he quickly dismissed this as being too negative.

            It wasn't long before another figure was entering as hastily as age allowed—Albus Dumbledore. "Sylvia, is everything all right? I could swear that there was just some great disturbance, unless my gift has totally left me. Was it you, or was it Sophie?"

            "Me," she admitted.

            Sophie added, "I'm not strong enough yet to do that kind of damage, sir. Only the eldest of The Three could make such a storm."

            "What happened?" Dumbledore asked, and Sylvia recounted the embarrassing tale to him. As she finished, there was yet another visitor at the door, this time knocking much more politely.

            "Come in," Snape called mock-gaily, at this point mortified by the attention that their lovers' spat was getting.

            At the door was none other than Draco Malfoy, looking into the room awkwardly. His hesitation increased as he noticed the headmaster was present.

            "Please do come in," Sylvia said, and Sophie nodded her assent.

            "Doctor…I mean, Sylvia, this is going to sound really stupid, I know. I probably shouldn't even mention it. But I kinda felt this…uh…feeling in my…never mind. It was dumb."

            "No, Draco, you're quite right. You felt pain in your scar, didn't you?" Sylvia asked kindly, as he nodded quickly. "I used my power, which I do very rarely. I'm sorry I had to disturb you. There's nothing wrong, don't worry."

            The haphazard group talked about the situation for a few more minutes until there was another knock at the door. This time the guest was, surprisingly, Harry Potter, who looked almost as awkward as Draco had, and even more so, once he saw his arch-nemesis was in the room.

            "Oh, good lord," Severus muttered, his nerves about to break.

            "I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Oliver," he said slowly. "Professor McGonagall said that Professor Dumbledore went running out of a meeting to your room, and I need to talk to him."

            "What is it, Harry?" Dumbledore asked.

            "Well, Hermione told me—told me I had to come tell you, sir. It's just that my scar…it hurt really bad just now." He looked as if he gave this news quite begrudgingly. 

            "HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE THERE IN THIS BLOODY CASTLE WHO HAVE TO FEEL THIS BLOODY POWER?" Snape yelled, and everyone turned to look at him, surprised.

            "Sophie," Harry whispered, "What's he talking about?" He looked at Snape as if he was insane, then muttered, "This is the weirdest thing that's happened since Ludo Bagman sang to me in the Three Broomsticks." **

            "Severus," Dumbledore said quite calmly, "We can be assured if Harry felt this, then Voldemort felt it as well. It is my belief that the two are connected through Harry's curse scar. I imagine that Rosamund felt it as well, wherever she is."

            "Would that it would bring her here," Sylvia said impulsively, in a voice of unguarded desperation, a voice that showed it was something about which she had been worrying for quite some time.

            "She'll turn up, Andi," Sophie murmured, patting Sylvia's arm reassuringly. "It's not the first time she's done it, you know."

            "Well, everyone," Dumbledore said briskly, rubbing his hands together, "I imagine we've given Dr. Oliver and Professor Snape about all the company they can stand for right now. I'm sure it would be best for us to go."

            However, as everyone trooped out of the room, Dumbledore remained behind, waiting for a moment to speak to them alone.

            "Yes, Albus?" Sylvia asked, after the rest of the intruders had vanished.

            "Has Voldemort summoned you yet? I should think that he certainly felt that great rush of power."

            "Yes, I would think that he undoubtedly did. It's so strange. I thought for sure he would have summoned me by now, to find out what had happened. He's not above being frightened. He might think I was performing some ceremony against him. Or he might think I've finally followed through with my promise and killed poor Sevy."

            "Well, we can't always have what we want," Snape said dryly.

            "I do wonder what he's up to," Sylvia continued, bestowing a half-smile on Severus and taking his hand.

            "As do I," Dumbledore replied grimly. "It hardly seems like him. It must be something important indeed he's doing or planning, that would distract him from you. I just wish I knew what it was."

***Deleted Scene—**This is an alternate version of Sylvia and Severus' fight scene, as suggested by my darling Severa.

"Severus Snape!" she said, angry and swollen with power, and he looked up. As he did, his breath caught in his throat. She had stood up and seemed to almost be glowing, as something of great beauty and danger shone through her skin, pulsing with anger. Outside, he heard thunder rumble loudly, and saw that the gentle snowstorm had quickly turned to a raging blizzard. "HOW DARE YOU?" she asked, raising her right hand, and hail began to crash against the roof. In spite of himself, he backed away from her as much as he could. She looked dangerous.

Without any warning, a slight, theatrical looking man rushed into the room, and held up his hands to ward off Sylvia's anger.

"Stop!" he cried.

"Who are you?" Severus asked, incredulously.

"I know who you are! Remus and I saw you in that Muggle film when we were in London. You're Derek Jacobi!"

The renowned Shakespearean actor nodded grimly. "And I'm here to make sure that you two make up. I would hate to see you fighting."

"This is just ridiculous," Snape said. "I've had enough of it!" He reached behind his pillow where he always kept a rotten tomato handy. "Take this, you Ken Branagh-loving punk!"

"Severus, NO!!!!" Sylvia cried, and then the events seemed to happen in slow motion. The tomato revolved end over end, coming closer and closer to the shocked Derek, who turned to the ceiling in supplication.

"But, Iphigenia, I was going to make you a giant, plush doll of myself," he promised, and the writer repented.

Suddenly, orangutans entered the room, foaming at the mouth, as they were rabid. They seized Derek Jacobi without the slightest grunt, and carried him off just in time to avoid the rotten tomato, which hit the wall harmlessly.

"Thank youuuuuuuuuu…" Sylvia and Severus heard Derek yell as he was carried away.

"Well," Sylvia said, sitting down primly on the bed. "That was weird."

"Agreed." Snape said.

            ****

**A reference to my songfic, "Easy Money", which involves Ludo singing a Billy Joel song to Harry, Ron, and Hermione

@@@

Much thanks to Severa for the inspiration for the deleted scene. The next chapter should be up quite soon, as it is almost half finished, in which Sylvia reveals an important part of the plan to Draco (Karen, I know I told you it was going to be about Rosamund, but I wuz wrong. That'll come soon enough). And if anyone feels a burning need to write their review in the form of a rap song, I'll understand. However, I take all reviews, whether legible or no. Gratias vobis!


	8. Swithulf's Story

**A/N: **This is another "explanation" chapter, but hopefully, this one will be more interesting to the readers at large. Shout out to my homiez—Karen, Stef, and Steph. Act like you heard!

**Chapter Eight**

_ Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.  
Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns  
Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.  
Now in the haunted twilight I must do  
Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,  
And with my trembling lips I touch the rim._

-Amy Lowell, "The End"****

It was a cold and bitter February that year, and little cheer to go along with it. Dumbledore and his informants had had no news from Voldemort for almost two months. 

            "Which is incredibly unlike him," Sylvia said, twisting the fabric of her rich wine-colored robes as they sat in a meeting of the most important members of the resistance. "Back in the old days, meetings were weekly, if not more often. And even then, he wanted me with him most days out of the week. What ghastly thing could he be doing?"

            "Can it be that he suspects you?" Arthur Weasley asked shrewdly. "Perhaps he no longer confides in you because he knows where your sympathies lie."

            "It seems highly unlikely," Snape interjected. "He has not called a meeting of the Death Eaters either. No, he has gone into some kind of seclusion, I believe. But what he could be planning, I have no idea."

            "I'm afraid we're all at a loss," Dumbledore said humbly. "We know no more than we did when this silence began two months ago. We've no connections closer to him than Dr. Oliver, and if he will not call for her or for his Death Eaters, then I don't know what to do."

            "At least we have had two months with no attacks," Remus Lupin said frankly, glancing over at Sylvia. It was the first time he had returned to Hogwarts since his teaching job 2 years past, and he looked a little put out. "Whatever he is planning, that is a nice respite."

            "I agree," Dumbledore said. "But as I can't think of what else we can possibly do at the moment, I suggest we adjourn this meeting. We will meet again next week." 

            At these words, everyone slowly stood and began to give their farewells. 

            "Sylvia, can we talk?" Lupin asked, sidling up next to her. His words were slightly clipped, and he did not look as if the talk would be pleasant.

            She said, "Of course," just as Snape answered, "Of course not."

            She gave him a look. "Severus, I'll just be a minute."

            "Is that how long it takes you to get to Greece?" he asked sarcastically, though it was clear to even him from Lupin's expression that he was hardly going to ask her to go on holiday with him.

            She rolled her eyes. "Sevy, really."

            "Not meaning to eavesdrop," Dumbledore said, "But I'd like to talk to you anyway, Severus. If you don't mind."

            "Not at all," he replied sweetly. "As long as these two stay where I can see them."

***

"And what did Lupin want?" Snape asked coolly as the two walked to the Slytherin common room. Sylvia wanted to talk to Draco about "something very important", and he was accompanying her to make sure that Lupin hadn't tried to steal her away again.

"He told me that he had missed me, he hoped we could still be friends, and he added that he had finished translating a particularly difficult part of Rowena's diary. Apparently it is something so obscure that they've had trouble with it for years."

"Really?" Snape, who considered himself something of an amateur linguist, was interested. "Mind if I read it?"

"Of course not," she said. "I think a 14th century copy of the diary is on reserve in the library. Feel free to peruse it."

"How magnanimous of you," he said dryly, remembering that no matter how obscure the entry was, Sylvia probably knew what it meant. "Why didn't they just ask you to explain it to them?" he asked.

"Because I wouldn't," she said, her lips thin with anger. "And now Lupin and Dumbledore threaten to tell Draco unless I do so today. And so I go to him now."

"Oh, Sylvia, I'm sorry," he said, wondering what on earth could be this important. "Can I do anything to help?"

She took a deep breath. "Just promise you'll be there for me, no matter what."

"I think you know I will be."

"Good," she said, as they entered the commons. "I'll go to him now."

"Good luck," he called.

***

"Draco, can we talk?" Sylvia asked.

The boy shrugged. "I guess."

"Can you come with me?" 

"Yeah, whatever," he replied, bidding farewell to his goonies Crabbe and Goyle.

As they walked around corners and up staircases in the vast expanse of the castle, he asked, "What's going on, Sylvia?"

"There is something very important that I need to tell you," she replied, as they approached an ancient tapestry of a hound and a fox. She murmured a few words to it, and it melted away, leaving an aged wooden door in its place.

"Where are we?" Draco wondered, as Sylvia opened the creaky door.

She didn't answer, but the room answered for her. It was tiny, but full of sunlight, and contained three rows of pews with kneelers, and a small altar. Despite the fact that the room looked like it hadn't been used in years, the altar coverings were fresh and clean, flowers were placed around the small chapel, and a candle was lit over the little aumbrey.

But most striking was the stained glass panel behind the cross of the altar. It was a man in his mid-thirties, tall, dressed in flowing robes with brown-blond hair but eyes black as midnight. In spite of himself, Draco shivered at the combination.

"What is this place?" he asked, staring at the stained glass in awe. But he felt as if he already knew.

"This is Swithulf's," Sylvia said simply, nodding her head gravely to the cross over the altar. 

"Slytherin's…I mean, your son?" Draco asked.

"Yes. Your older brother, I suppose. I've kept it nice for him. It was all he asked. 'Keep a candle lit for me, Mama.' So I did."

"Why…what happened to him? He's left out of the history books, you know."

"He died out of his time," she replied. "He was only thirty-seven. My firstborn."

"What did he die of?" Draco questioned.

"That's what we must talk about, Draco," she answered, sitting down in one of the pews. He followed her example.

"My son died as a result of his father's madness," she said, glancing up at the panel of stained glass. "When I met him, Slytherin was not what he became in those later years. He was ambitious, and he was cunning—he had heard that a child of a mortal and one of the Three had a longer life expectancy than a mere mortal, and so he deceived me into bearing him a child, and then, marrying him—but he was not mad. He simply wanted an heir, and a line, that would outlast others. 

"I imagine he was sorely disappointed when our son, Swithulf, took more after me than after his father. He was my first child, and I was only fifteen…by your years."

            "He has your hair, and your face," Draco noted, staring at the panel as if trying to decipher the man.

            "Yes, but Salazar's eyes," Sylvia replied. "Then, to the surprise of us both, Swithulf was not as talented at magic as his father could have hoped. He would get so angry with him…screaming and yelling and threatening and beating…I knew it was not what Salazar had wanted, a child that was almost a Squib. MY son would always run to me, crying, and I would gather him up in my arms and tell him that it would be all right, that his magic was his sweet spirit and his pure soul, not his ability with a wand."

            'What a pansy," Draco muttered under his breath, branding Swithulf as a mama's boy forever in his mind.

            "What's that?" Sylvia asked a little sharply, as if she had heard.

            "Oh, nothing," Draco covered, remembering that this woman was his mother.

            "Then, as if this wasn't enough, Swithulf shocked us again. He became an ardent Christian, and claimed that he was going to go into training for the priesthood. Salazar beat it out of him, and that night, he almost died…probably would have if I hadn't done some things that I am not supposed to do." She looked grave. "He continued to worship at the nearest chapel, but Salazar wouldn't let him get the wrong idea about Muggles. He arranged a marriage with Helga's niece Helewis, a beautiful young girl whom Swithulf had known all his life."

            "Man, they had some pretty horrible names," Draco commented.

            "I think you would have every right to say that if you weren't named after an Athenian lawgiver who punished every misstep with death. Not the most promising name, Draco."

            "Yeah, well, you take what you can get," he answered sullenly.

            "Anyway," Sylvia replied, with the air of one anxious to get on with her story, "Salazar was shocked when the two of them, with Helewis' consent, moved to a Muggle village not far from here, and became part of the local community there. It was an insult he would not bear, he said."

            She broke off for a moment to stare at the large panel of stained glass, and Draco could swear he saw the glimmer of a tear in her eye.

            "Salazar bided his time for a few years. Swithulf and Helewis would always visit us in Hogsmeade, and bring their children….four beautiful children. I had managed to hide the fact that they had had them christened. I knew Salazar couldn't stand it. But when the fifth was born…I went to the ceremony, and he found out."

            She paused again, and he could tell that the next was the worst. He didn't want to hear it about the Founder of his illustrious house. But what could he have done? Killed a few Muggles? Destroyed the church? It couldn't have been so bad.

            "Salazar had gotten old, and became crueler with each passing year. He was in his seventies at that point, and I had long since ceased to live with him. I had known…I could tell from the signs…that something must be done about him, but I was loath to do it. Then he went too far. He went to the village, went to the church, and herded Swithulf, Helewis, and their children out. He said that he wanted to speak with them, but he merely wanted to get them out of the way. And then…and then…he destroyed the town. To a man. The children, the babies, the women and men, all dead. Hundreds of corpses littered the area."

            "Whoa," was Draco's only comment. He realized after he said it that it was probably a little callous.

            Sylvia shut her eyes. "Sophie and Rosamund agreed with me. He must be destroyed. We had never done it before, but we knew there was a ritual for such things. It needed only the three of us, and one more, someone who had the blood of the condemned running through their veins. I had been taught about it, when I became the eldest of the Three."

            "And your son was the one, wasn't he?" Draco surmised.

            "Yes."

            "And what happened?"

            She sighed. "I can show you. Swithulf asked that I preserve his memories in case such a thing needed to be done again. I keep a Pensieve of them here, in his chapel. Would you like to see? I don't know if I can…if I can tell you."

            "Sure," he shrugged.

            "Very well." She ascended to the altar, and dug a Pensieve out from underneath it, a very old one, looking rather worn and time weary.  "Do you know how it works?"

            "Of course," Draco said a little huffily. "The Malfoys have one where we keep our esteemed family history." He realized as he said it that he wasn't a Malfoy, not really.

            "Would you like me to join you?" she asked.

            "I guess." 

            "Ready?" 

            "Whatever." He was doing his best to feign indifference. She rolled her eyes, grabbed his hand (he marveled that hers was so cool) and touched her other hand to the surface of the Pensieve.

@@@

Why is there always a conveniently located Pensieve at hand? It's such a valuable plot device. Eh well, take what you can get. 

Now I would like to thank my loverly reviewers: **Severa**, my partner in crime and favorite person to visit;  **Normandie M**, a girl knowledgeable in all things Pompey; **Threeoranges** (and her various personas), for livening up my reviews considerably;  **Polgara**, for faithfully reading my sequel; **Anna**, for letting me come to her house and mock her plumber; and last but not least, my darling **Benito**, for loving his girlfriend so very very much.

Thanks y'all! Next chapter coming soon!


	9. Mother's Eyes

**A/N**: I did this chapter a little differently than normal.  Draco and (elder) Sylvia are invisible to the reader, but they are there, watching on.  The chapter is from Swithulf's perspective, and the song lyrics are from Jump, Little Children's perspective (the song is "Mother's Eyes").  I hope you enjoy this little departure; I know I highly enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Nine 

_There's a moon asking to stay_

_Long enough for the clouds to fly me away_

_Well, it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die_

_My fading voice sings of love,_

_But she cries to the clicking of time…_

_And the rain is falling and I believe_

_My time has come_

_It reminds me of the pain_

_I might leave_

_Leave behind…_

_And I fell them drown my name_

_So east to know and forget with this kiss_

_I'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow._

-Jeff Buckley, Grace

            It was night, and they were in a bedroom in Hogwarts, the bedroom right next to Sylvia's.  They were sleeping as best as they could, under the circumstances.

_…Sound asleep in an ocean of crashes…_

            Swithulf had tried to sleep, but he couldn't.  He could still hear the cries in his head, the innocent voices crying for mercy.  He turned fitfully in bed and awoke.  Beside him, Helewis slept deeply, nor was there any sound from the cradle, in which their youngest, Sihtric, had been laid to bed.  He heard rain pounding on the roof; unnatural, for this season, that is should rain.  He wondered if he was the one who caused it, or if it was his mother.

_…Sound asleep in pouring black rain…_

            His mother…He sat up and saw her staring at him, sitting in a chair by the cradle.

            "Mother!" he gasped.  "What are you doing?"

            "Just watching over you," she replied, and by the dim lamplight from the hall he could see her face, unlined with years, as young as that of his eldest son.  It still disconcerted him, that he was older than his mother.  "Were you asleep, Swithul?  Did I wake you?"

            "I didn't think I was asleep.  I was praying, and I must have dozed."

            She smiled.  "Then I am glad you God gave you some respite."

_…Bedside voices praying with tears of ashes…_

            "Mother, what must I do?" he asked, wanting to get the words out, for he knew that she wanted something from him.  "I'll do anything, anything to stop him."  He felt his eyes prick with tears unshed.  He was a father, a provider for his family.  Surely he couldn't cry.

_…Stung by the salt of weeping skies…_

            "I know.  And you will need to do something.  But I won't tell you about it tonight, dear.  You need to sleep, and not worry."

            "Not worry?" he asked, his voice cracking.  "How can I not worry, after what he…he did?"

            Helewis shifted in the bed, and the baby made a little sighing noise.

            "Let's go to my room," Sylvia suggested.  "We don't want to wake them."

            "Yes, Mother," he said.

_…All alone lying shoulder to shoulder…_

            They sat in her chairs, in her bright, cheerful room.  Despite the late hour, she had the place well lit, hung all over with candles and oil lamps.  Somehow the atmosphere seemed incongruous with th horrors that had happened so recently.

            "I'm frightened, Mother," he admitted.

            "So am I, Swithulf," she replied.

_…All along with hot hand in hand…_

            "But…but you're not supposed to get frightened," he stammered. But then, he thought he wasn't supposed to get frightened, either, not as a father as a husband.  "You're one of the Three.  You are not supped to feel fear."

            "Do you not think it makes me any less capable of human emotion than your father or Helewis?" she replied.  "And remember, half of you is begotten from me."

            "Do not compare Helewis with that—that monster!" he said vehemently, and then rubbed his eyes, cursing himself for his body's weakness, for his need for sleep.  If he really was the son of such a hideous beast, surely he shouldn't need such things.

_…Sleepy gestures of silent tongue and lashes…_

            "You're tired.  You need to go to bed, dear," his mother commented, her golden brown hair unmussed, her eyes sleepless and clear.  He wondered if she needed sleep.

            "I can't help it, Mother.  I can't help but think…all my friends, my neighbors...they're dead because of me.  Me and that horrible man who begot me…I…I…"

_…Cheek to cheek with last goodbyes…_

            He began to cry, even though he had told himself that he wouldn't.  He was a husband, he was a father, and could not cry, for their sake.  He had to be strong for them, and tell theme verythinig would be all right.  But nothing could be all right anymore.

            His mother did not speak—she merely held open her arms, and he fell into her embrace, becoming young again, with nothing more amiss than a skinned knee or a sly comment made to him in transfiguration class.

_…Hold me, a child in your arms,_

_Hold me, please hold me…_

            "Please don't cry, Swithulf," she murmured.  "It's not over yet, is it?  It's not over yet."

            They made quite a picture, the young, teenage girl holding the thirty-something man in her arms as if he was a babe at her breast.  But everything was not as it seemed.  She was not a young teenage girl, but a woman almost immeasurably old, with wisdom and benevolence in her eyes.  And yet, as Swithulf looked up at her, he thought that he saw fear.

            "Come now," she said.  "You really must go to bed.  And in the …in the morning, then we will begin the preparations."  She had faltered a little bit; she was nervous, and he could tell.  But why?

            "Yes, Mother," he said, standing up and turning towards his room.

            She caressed his face, and he wondered again at the strange expression her eyes held.  "Goodnight, my son."

_…I'm lost in your gaze, floating away…_

***

            They were in the field behind Hogwarts. His mother had said that any clear, flat space would do.  They needed lots of room, she said.  It was dusk, and the sun was fading.  Sylvia, Sophia, and Rosamund made the preparations as Godric, Rowena, Helga, and Helewis looked on.  Despite the warmth of the summer day, an eerie quiet reigned in the field where the barley was beginning to nod.

_…Wide awake on an ocean of silence…_

            "Swithulf?" his mother said in a warm, quiet tone, and he looked up.  "Are you ready?  We should begin."

            "Yes, Mother," he said.  He kissed Helewis deeply, lovingly, and then rejoined Sylvia.

            "I love you, Swithulf Slytherin," she said, running her hand through his hair.  She seemed very sad, but he wasn't sure why.  She had said that the ritual would tire him, but that he should be all right afterwards.  Then again, they had never performed the ritual before.

            "I love you too, Mother," he answered, thinking back to warm summer nights long ago, when she would sit by his bed, and tell him stories in that same warm, quiet tone.  "And I am ready."

            "Very well," she said, biting her lip, and suddenly looking as young as her face belied.

_…Wide awake in soft lullabies…_

            Sylvia, Sophia, and Rosamund stood in a circle around him, touching one another palm to palm.  He looked beyond them at Helewis, smiling weakly at him.  He smiled back.  Godric, Rowena, and Helga looked on in anticipation.

            The Three began to chant.   The language was old, a language before a language had ever been, and the words flowed smoothly off their tongues, like music, like something beyond music.  Everyone there shuddered in spite of themselves.

            As they chanted, a strangely colored light began to emanate from their palms.  It was hard to describe the color of it; like the language, it seemed to be color beyond color, the color of all colors, color before color ever was.  Swithulf found it both terrifying and comforting as it filled his eyes, reminding him of pleasant times in his past, and of horrible ones.

_…Linen shadows floating through open sashes…_

            Suddenly, beyond his mother and her two companions (not Slyvia, Sophie, and Rosamund now, but Andromache, Artemis, and Axiotheia), he saw three more—older, graver faces, one immensely similar to Sylvia's.  Her hair shone silver in the light, and her eyes were blue, not gray, but the resemblance was striking.

            My grandmother, Rhodesia, he realized.  She took her palce behind Sylvia, and her two companions (Rahab and Ruth, Swithulf though, having dug back deep into his memory) stood behind their daughters as well, mimicking their post: palms to palms.  A fainter, but similar light shone from their hands.

            And then, behind them, three more.  He knew his great-grandmother was Inanna; his mother had passed this lore onto him.  Besides that, he thought he remembered the names Ishtar and Irkalla, but he wasn't sure.  These three also linked their palms, spreading out to give more room.  He thought he saw two more circles of women behind them, but he wasn't sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

            Now he stared up at the ancient Andromache, his mother, absorbed in the beauty and power of her gray gaze, her body suffused with the same light that emanated from her palms.

_…All in the touch of a mother's eyes…_

            All of the women, a chorus of voices, rose in a chant that seemed almost like a wail, still sing-songing that most ancient of languages, and their light filled his eyes, his body, and the whole world, it seemed.

            Just as suddenly, it was gone.  Its presence had been comforting him, he realized, and holding him up; without it, he was empty, voided somehow, and he fell to the ground, unbalanced.

            Andromache became Sylvia again, and knelt down before him.  The nameless power in her eyes was gone, and they now held only worry and concern.  She took him up in her arms again, as she had the night before, and he felt grateful for the embrace.

            "Swithulf, can you hear me?" she asked.  Her voice seemed far away, and touched with fear.  He could tell by her eyes that something had gone wrong.

            Of course I can, he wanted to say, but found that his voice had dried up.  He had to be able to make himself speak.

_…Hold me, a child in your arms_

_Hold me, please hold me…_

            "Mother," he finally croaked out, his voice raspy and harsh.  He touched his throat weakly, surprised at the sound that it made.  "Hedheue, Hyssmaye…Savaric, Hodierna…little Sihtric."  He was amazed at the ordeal it was just to name his children.

            "I will take care of them," she promised.  She didn't try to comfort him, or tell him that he would be all right.  They both knew the truth.

            But he thought she could have waited until he was gone before she began to cry.  She was supposed to be strong for him, but he felt the wetness of her tears on his face, dropping from those so recently powerful eyes.

_…A water-marked sky of tears that I cry_

_Is floating so high…_

            "Mother…" he said, about to admonish her for crying, but then he though better of it.  She was just a child, really.  A woman in a child's body.

            "Oh, Swithulf…" she answered, her warm tears almost scalding the coolness of his skin.

            He locked his eyes with hers.  He wanted that to be this last sight, those gray, bottomless eyes.  What would they see after he was gone?  How many centuries, how many songs, how many lovers?  How many times would she perform this ritual?

            He felt rain again on his face, and knew this time that it was his mother's doing.  She was sobbing for him, and so were the heavens.

_…All in the touch of a mother's eyes,_

_Stung by the salt of weeping skies…_

            "Light…light a candle for me, Mama," he said, and stared intently at her eyes, until he could stare no more.

            "Swithulf!" she cried, pressing his cold body against hers.  "No, my baby, my baby, no!"  She looked up for her mother, longing for one embrace, but the shadowy Rhodesia had disappeared.  She was alone, with her dead son.  She drew him nearer, in his final embrace, and closed his black eyes, his father's eyes.

_…Cheek to cheek with last goodbyes…_

@@@

Okay, I really hope the ending didn't have to much Pieta in it.  I didn't realize how much it resembled that until I finished writing it, stepped back, and went "Damn."  Oh well.  If you liked it, review.  Even if you didn't like it, review.  I may kick your ass afterwards, but it will have been worth it.


	10. More on Motherhood

A/N: Yes, I know it has been a long time since I have put up a chapter. I'm not sure if anyone really cares about my story anymore, but it amuses me to put it up, so I will continue. Enjoy. Chapter Ten 
    
    _She only asks to lay her burden down,_
    
    _That her glad arms that burden may resume;_
    
    _And nature's sharpest pangs her wishes crown,_
    
    _ That free thee living from thy living tomb._
    
    _She longs to fold to her maternal breast_
    
    _Part of herself, yet to herself unknown;_
    
    _To see and to salute the stranger guest,_
    
    _Fed with her life through many a tedious moon._
    
    _Come, reap thy rich inheritance of love!_
    
    _Bask in the fondness of a Mother's eye!_
    
    _Nor wit nor eloquence her heart shall move_
    
    _Like the first accents of thy feeble cry._
    
    -Anna Laetitia Barbauld, "To a Little Invisible Being Who is Expected Soon to Become Visible"

            Complete silence reigned in the small chapel for a while. Draco and Sylvia sat on separate pews, thinking their separate thoughts.

            Finally Sylvia said, "I wanted so badly during that ritual to turn around and see my mother. I didn't remember her face, though Ruth and Rahab had told me she was most beautiful. And then, to see them again…I remember their faces at death—old, lined with years. It had been so long since I had seen them young. Every time I look into that Pensieve, I can't help but look at my mother, and the other two, and want to ask them what it was like, to love someone truly and die."

            "He died," Draco said coldly, as if he hadn't heard what she had said. "He died and you want me to do it too. I won't! I won't do it, Sylvia! "

            "Draco, it was an aberration…simply because Swithulf died doesn't necessarily mean you will too."

            "Well, thank you for that 'necessarily'. It comforts me tremendously," Draco said sarcastically, and stood up. 

            "Where are you going?" she asked.

            "Away from you, Mother," he replied, saying the word mockingly. "I think you have a bad track record with your sons."

            "Just…please…" she started to call, but he was already gone.

***

            "So, you told Draco," Dumbledore stated with a finality that brooked no dissent. She had gone straight from Swithulf's chapel to the headmaster's office.

            "Personally, I would have waited a bit longer to tell him that we want him to perform the ritual that killed my firstborn," she said, anger coursing through each word. "Especially as Rosamund is not here, and there's no way we can perform the ritual any time soon if she doesn't show up. But you and Remus left me no choice."

            "Sylvia, it was time that the boy knew," Dumbledore replied. "Remus and I both agreed on that."

            "And I believed that it was too early. Albus, you don't understand. Draco just found out that the people he believed to be his parents were not, and that is a big enough blow for a teenage boy to recover from. He didn't need to add this to his list."

            "From what I know of him, Mr. Malfoy is quite resilient," Dumbledore said. "Don't coddle him, Sylvia."

            Her eyes flashed. She was more than a little angry.  "And how would you feel, Albus?"

            "About what?" he asked mildly, ignoring her anger in a way she found maddening. Sometimes the Headmaster of Hogwarts could be annoying in his apparent perfection.

            "If you learned that the people you believed were your parents were not," she answered.

            "That's beside the point, Sylvia—"

            "Is it, Albus?" she asked pointedly. "How do you know that your parents were your own? Fauna was a nice girl, and I am sure your father loved her in his way, but—"

            "Sylvia, I demand to know what you imply," Dumbledore interrupted. She noted with pleasure that she had unnerved him, but she felt a twinge of regret.

            "Now's not the time to tell you," she mumbled. "I must be going, Albus…"

            "Sylvia! For Merlin's sake—just tell me you are not my mother!" The desperation in his voice was evident. It would be a little too Oedipal for him to have lusted after his mother.

            She sighed. "You just thought you were well preserved, didn't you, Albus? And the way that you can sense the power of The Three…you think that came from something you read, something you learned?"

            "SYLVIA!" He had raised his voice. She had never known Albus Dumbledore to raise his voice.

            "No, I am not your mother," she said quietly. "Sophie is."

            "Your joke is not funny, Dr. Oliver," the old man said, his voice shaking.  
            "Albus, I wouldn't lie. She didn't have the heart to tell you. Your father married Fauna _after_ you were born, and they adopted you. We make terrible mothers, you know? It must be very disconcerting to reach an age where we look younger than you."

            "Sylvia, please…it's not true," he answered.

            "I delivered her of you," she replied. "I think I would know."

            "I can't believe something like this. It's all too convenient for you."

            "Very well," she said, and lifted her right hand, palm out, murmuring a few words. Dumbledore knew that she was summoning Sophie, in the language that The Three shared. She had tried it often enough in the past few months for Rosamund's sake, with no result. 

            "Why wouldn't she have told me?" he asked, and despite his age, he looked young and vulnerable.

            "She knew how much you loved Fauna as a mother. She didn't want to break your heart. She's toyed with telling you these past few years, but after so long…Zeus, Albus, why do you think she spent so much time with you in your youth? She was always around, wasn't she?"

            "No more than you were," he said quickly.

            "We had to leave America because of the war," Sylvia replied. "And besides that, I felt a strong power in you. It made me curious. Sophie was also afraid to go alone. Fauna loathed her, you know."

            "I didn't know," he murmured, lost in his thoughts. He was then interrupted by the pretty blond teenager that stood at the door.

            "Sylvia, what did you want?" Sophie asked. 

            Sylvia looked down at the ground, apparently feeling guilty. "Sophie…I…I told him. I didn't mean to. It just slipped out."

            "Told him what?" Sophie asked suspiciously.

            "Erm…" Sylvia didn't finish the thought.

            "Oh, Sylvia," Sophie replied, disappointment in her eyes.

            "I'm sorry!" Sylvia cried, looking only partly remorseful. "I just couldn't stand keeping it from him anymore."

            "We've kept it for a hundred and fifty years," Sophie answered, with a touch of anger.

            "Sophia," Dumbledore said with formality. "Mother?"

"Look at the time!" Sylvia said hastily. "I told Severus I would meet him to go over Greek!" She slipped out quickly and literally ran down the hall, anxious to be away from the less than happy reunion.

***

Snape was waiting for her in his office, tapping his foot a little impatiently. "What took you so long?"

"Nice to see you too," she said cheerfully. "Severus, you won't believe the awful thing I just did."

"Try me." After she explained the snafu she had created, he laughed uproariously. "Sylvia, I had no idea that knowing about The Three was going to explain so many things."

"We're rad like that," she remarked dryly. 

"How is Draco?" he asked, after his laughter had died down.

"Not good," she admitted. "He's mad at me, and scared, and so unsure. I knew it wasn't the right time to tell him, but I didn't want anyone other than me to do it. I could kill Remus…"

"Don't let me stop you," he remarked.

She giggled. "What have you been up to for the past few hours?"

"Grading Potions essays!" he said in a tone of mock-jubilation. "Miss Granger's is twice the required length, and not something that I cared to read. The best of the bunch is certainly Padma Patil's. Here, let me show you how she explained the infusion of acanthus and—"

"Oh!" Sylvia exclaimed, extending her right hand in a familiar gesture.

"What is it?" Severus asked anxiously.

"It's Sophie…she's trying to tell me something," she explained. After another moment, she stood up abruptly. "We have to go, Severus, come."

"What's happened?" he questioned.

"It's Rosamund. She's back."

@@@

What the #@%@#!? Rosamund's back? Where has she been this whole time? What has she been doing? Read our next chapter, and discover the answers you seek.


	11. Rosamund Returns

A/N: Yes, this one was a long time in coming, I am aware. But no one read the last chapter, so who the hell really cares? If anyone is reading this, then read on. Chapter Eleven 

A lily-girl, not made for this world's pain,  
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,  
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears  
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:  
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,  
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,  
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,  
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.

-Oscar Wilde, "Madonna Mia"

Sylvia and Severus dashed up to the Great Hall, where several students were milling about, talking eagerly about the situation with one another.  In the midst of them were Sophie and Dumbledore, kneeling over the prostrate Rosamund.  Sylvia rushed to their side immediately, but Snape hung back around the fringes.

"What happened?" he asked two of his seventh-year Slytherins. 

"Well, Severa and I had had a walk around the lake, sir," explained one, nudging her friend, "and as we came in, we were discussing what it would be like to…uh…"

"I think you can omit that part, Iphi," Severa said, cutting her off.

"And this girl kind of limped in, and she looked real faint, so I grabbed her arm and asked her if she needed any help. She just said, 'Sylvia, Sophia,' and then she fainted. Well, we knew that she had to mean Dr. Oliver and Miss. St. Paul, so—"

"So Iphigenia decided to stay here with her," Severa interrupted, "and I ran up to Professor Dumbledore's office. I knew where it was because…well, I've been there before. Sophie was up there with him so we brought them downstairs. That's all we know."

"Thank you, girls," he responded, and they glowed with pride at their good report.

He brushed his way past Harry, Ron, and Hermione—the "terrible trio", he called them—who were watching with interest. He could've guessed they would have come running at the first scent of a mystery. 

"Do you want to take her to the infirmary?" he asked Sylvia, Sophie, and Dumbledore. 

"That's what we're planning," Sylvia answered. "Madam Pomfrey is bringing a stretcher now."

"What's wrong with her?"

"We're not sure…we're a little confused, Sylvia and I, I mean," Sophie murmured worriedly.

"Confused?" he repeated.

"We didn't sense that she was here. Usually we can sense important things about each other. Maybe we've just gotten out of practice with her…we haven't seen her in a long time….and…"

"Excuse me, ladies," Madam Pomfrey said, bustling in with a stretcher, upon which they gently lifted Rosamund.

Everyone followed her up to the infirmary, but Madam Pomfrey begged for privacy in which to examine her patient. It was agreed that they would give her rest until the next morning, when she would hopefully be awake.

***

But it was certainly not the next morning when Sylvia and Severus were awakened. They had decided to spend a comfortable night together, holding each other tightly, but they were interrupted not long after they had retired. This time, it was Madam Pomfrey who knocked on the door.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Oliver," she said, "but you really should come at once."

"What's wrong?" Sylvia asked, wrapping a robe around her and tying it. 

"You may want to see her for yourself."

"Is Rosamund awake?"

"Oh, yes. She's been up for an hour or so, talking with me. We decided that it was imperative she speak to you and Sophia. I was adamant about fetching Albus as well, but she did not seem pleased with the idea. Anyway, I'm off to get Miss St. Paul…I trust you can find your way to the Infirmary on your own," Pomfrey rattled off.

"Of course," Sylvia murmured. "Thank you, Poppy." She then turned to Severus, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Are you going to come with me?"

"I wasn't aware that you wanted me to accompany you," he said stiffly. 

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I thought perhaps you might want to speak to her alone."

"No." She said it grimly, as if that would come later. "Not yet." Then she came out of whatever bleak thoughts she had found herself in, and added, "I want you there with me."

"Then let's go," he replied, buttoning a robe up over his black silken boxers. 

            They proceeded at a brisk pace towards the infirmary, until they passed a particular portrait of an old man, wizened with age, who stared morosely at passers-by. Snape had always found him a little intimidating, until now.

            "Sylvia!" he said excitedly, his features lighting up into a smile. 

She turned to him and returned the smile. "Why, if it isn't Thukydides McGregor! How have you been?"

"Miserable. I wish someone would let me rest in an attic in peace," he replied. 

"I'm dreadfully sorry," she answered. 

"How have you been? Time has been graceful to your delicate face," he said wistfully. 

"Well…things have been hard. Do you remember Rosamund? I'm on my way to see her now, and she's been very sick. I'm worried, Thukydides."

"Then I won't keep you," he said kindly. "You go on ahead. And best of luck, dear Sylvia."

As she and Severus walked away, they could still hear the old man murmuring his goodbyes. 

"And who was that?" Snape felt the need to ask.

"Old school chum," she replied with finality, and before he could question her, they had arrived at the infirmary.

Rosamund sat propped up in a hospital bed, her face as white and wan as the sheets, as still as a waxen doll.

"Rosamund." Sylvia said her name not with the joy that she had so recently had in her voice at the meeting of her old friend. This time she sounded more resigned, as she would to a woman who had troubled her in recent years. 

"Hullo, Andromache," Rosamund said quietly. She would not look her in the eye, and was wadding the bedsheets into knots with her fingers. "Hello, Severus," she added as an afterthought. 

"What have you done, Axiotheia? What's wrong with you?" Sylvia's face showed concern, but no pity. Severus had never seen her be so hard, so indifferent.

"Can we wait until Artemis gets here?" Rosamund pleaded.

"If we must." Sylvia said down in a chair, motioning Severus to do the same. Feeling strangely foolish, he grasped her hand. But she smiled at him and squeezed it harder. 

It was but a minute more before Sophie arrived, with her son walking more slowly behind her.

"What is it, Rosamund?" Sophie asked. Her voice, like Sylvia's, was purposely cold. It was clear to Snape, at least, that the two were communicating with each other on a level beyond words, a level that Rosamund could not hear. Perhaps it was a test. 

"Must he be here?" Rosamund asked, indicating Snape.

"Get on with it!" Sylvia snapped. "We've been waiting for you for months, and you had better explain yourself. Where have you been?"

"With Voldemort," Rosamund said simply. Snape cringed slightly at the name, and at the directness with which she said it.

"Why?" Sophie asked. Neither the elder nor the younger member of the Three were giving her any grace.

"He…he is my One." It took her a while to say it.

Sylvia's face was transformed during this moment. A light, perhaps that of illumination, seemed to make her features grow more powerful, more ominous. 

"Then it is as I thought," she replied, and, standing upright and gently smoothing out the wrinkles in her robe, she began to walk out of the room.

As an afterthought, she added, "I can't believe it took so long for him to impregnate you."

"Impreg…" Sophie, despite her cold veneer earlier, was clearly shocked by this information, as were the two men.

"Yes, impregnate," Sylvia repeated, and Rosamund nodded her confirmation. "She is of no use to us now. She's mortal from the moment of conception. A loophole that he must have discovered from the ancient writings. He has nine months without our power to wreak his havoc, secure from our threats. Until the child is born, we have no hope."

"Oh God," Sophie breathed. Then she snapped. "How could you? How could you…you…"

"Severus, Albus…?" Sylvia said, motioning them outside. 

"Sylvia, we can't…" Even Dumbledore seemed at a loss of what to say.

"Oh, Albus," she said reassuringly. "It's not as terrible as that. It would've taken that long, I imagine, to convince Draco. The only difference is that he now knows that we cannot harm him."

"I must call a meeting of the faculty," Dumbledore said quietly. "Severus, will you help me to summon everyone?"

"Yes, headmaster," Severus mumbled. "Can I have a moment with Sylvia?"

"Naturally. Best of luck," the headmaster said to Sylvia.

"I'm so sorry, Sylvia. This is—by Merlin, this is terrible. I can't believe she would…"

"She's waited her whole life for love, Sevy," Sylvia said. "She had never been with a man before. She did not know what to do."

"I love you," he said suddenly, surprising even himself. He wasn't sure why he said it. Perhaps it was the imminent danger that faced them, or simply a revelation not glimpsed heretofore.

"And I you," she replied, kissing him softly. "Now, you must go to your meeting. And I have to go, as well."

"To him?" He wasn't sure why he asked. It was a foregone conclusion.

"Yes. This time…" she bit her lip as she said it. "The time has passed for games and pretenses. He knows the whole truth anyway."

***

"Ah, Mother. I knew no better way to get your attention," Voldemort said with a sickening excitement. He sat in a large overstuffed red chair before a fire. With his presence in it, it looked like some sort of demonic throne before the fires of hell.

"Tom, I am very upset with you." She adopted a scolding, maternal tone. It had worked before. His early loss of his mother and his awe of her age had left him sensitive to this sort of manipulation.

"Oh, but Mother," he said mock-petulantly, "You never taught me about reproduction. How was I to know?"

"Not a kinetic learner, Tom?" she asked sarcastically. She folded her arms and stood against the mantle, the fire warming the back of her robes.

He laughed his high, shrill, cold laugh. "A good turn of phrase, Sylvia! And here I was, thinking that you had left me for good. Gone back to your sexual exploits with my transfigurations professor, perhaps, and left me in the lurch. I needed a suitable replacement."

She didn't know which to address first, and finally gave up on addressing either at all. "You're so proud of yourself, aren't you? You don't realize that She knows every outcome before she plans the action? This happened for a reason."

His bantering tone was gone immediately, and his red eyes swelled with contempt. "Who, Andromache? Your "Mother Nature"? I think you're the one who doesn't realize…I've bent her to my will. I could've done it with you if I had wanted to."

She bit her lip, not saying what she wanted to say. He stood to his impressive height, cold and pale like a corpse, and stroked her arm. She shivered at his touch.

"But I didn't break you…oh no. It is the spirit in you that I like. When I was young and foolish, I thought to myself, _why would Slytherin choose her over the others? He must have seen the greatness of her will, and wanted to own it_." He laughed a bit, as if at himself. "Now I know you were the only one of childbearing age. These things are simple."

She stared down at his black fingernails. "What have you become?" she whispered, and she wasn't sure why she asked it. Whatever he had become, he had become a long time ago. She was something powerful and beautiful, and like all powerful and beautiful things, he wanted her for his own, to twist to his own purposes. 

He continued to talk. "You know, I don't want to lose you, Mother. Neither of us can die; it seems a shame to waste a chance such as that. You won't miss Rosamund too much. She told me how she loathed you, almost every day. Her eyes grew bright with hatred…it was magnificent. I ask you, Andromache, what would happen if I were to kill her now, hmm?"

She hadn't thought about it. Was it possible? Rosamund was mortal now, yes, but the baby…how could the baby survive if she was killed? She did her best to hide the panic in her eyes, but somehow he detected the trace of it. Panic was what he thrived on, after all. 

"You won't kill her, Tom," she tried to say nonchalantly. "You wouldn't waste the gift of such a valuable child."

"A child that could destroy me?" he asked, and she thought of Draco. He smoothed out his black robes with his deadly white hands, and seemed bored. He was like a child, to get bored so easily, but he always had been.

"I'm leaving, Tom," she said forcefully.

"Why? Is he really that much better in bed than I am?"

She wasn't sure if he was making a reference to Dumbledore or to Snape, but she studiously ignored his comment.

"I didn't say that. I said I was leaving."

"But, Mother, you can't leave now. I've planned a celebration just for us. I sent my slaves out tonight to destroy a Muggle village so that we could be alone."

"That's awfully thoughtful of you," she remarked dryly. 

"Do come to bed, Mother, and stop your whining. You are so much more talented than your younger sister…isn't that what she is? It doesn't matter. I've been wanting you ever since I first tasted her."

"No, Tom. Don't you know that you are not attractive anymore? Have you looked at yourself recently?" She kept her tone as light as possible, but she was through with indulging him.

"Mother." He said it coldly. "I know how he did it. I know how he kept you bound to him for so long, besides the spell he worked on you—it wasn't enough. That's why he created a charm so powerful that it could even control you, using the ancient magic."

Her eyes widened. "Who…who told you that? Tom, WHO TOLD YOU THAT?" She had lost her temper.

He smiled. "Why, he told me himself. I talked with him just the other day."

She considered telling him that necromancy was illegal, but she realized it would be a patently absurd thing to say. 

"He taught me the charm, you know. Do you really want me to use it?"

She looked weary. The charm had drained her powers, and she remembered the long years of struggling until she had finally overcome it. No, she did not really want him to use it.

"Let's go to bed, Tom."

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I am Iphigenia, obviously, and Severa belongs to herself, or whatever British actor she may have sold herself off to. If you find us amusing, you may read about our antics in "Rubida Luna" written by the lovely Severa, and "Redemption" by the ever-wonderful and lovely Normandie_M, who must be congratulated upon graduating and doing such an excellent job. Mazel tov! Oh, and read and review.


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